Let me tell you about the time I….felt The Boy’s granny up

In honour of The Boy’s French relatives returning to France after spending the holidays with us, I thought I’d drag out this little gem….

I shit you not
Well as those of you who read this blog know, The Boy is half Francais.
You really shouldn’t hold it against him.
(he’ll kill me for writing that…heh heh heh)

And as you also probably remember, I had to privilege of meeting the French half of his family last Summer during our trip to Paris.

What you don’t know, and what he also didn’t know until right now, is that I copped a feel of Nanny French.

*hangs head in shame*

And I should clarify now that I’m not some pervy Granny-groper by nature.
It was an accident.
I swear!

Now while they were all lovely, I was RIDICULOUSLY nervous, largely due to the fact that my French sucks and I had no idea what was going on.
When I get nervous, I get either really quiet and sulky or really hyper and jerky-movement-y.
During this meeting, I was the latter.

Things went well enough during the meal and the after-chat, but it was on the ride home that disaster struck.

The Boy’s Uncle was lovely enough to give us a lift to our hotel, and dropped off Nanny French on the way there.
Relief was setting in at this point as the finish line came into view and I was able to relax as I sat in the back of the car.

A rookie mistake.

You know how the French are presented in American and British shows and films as smelly rude people who insist on kissing everyone?

Well the kissing thing is true.
(no comment on the other characteristics…I jest, I jest!)

“Bonjour!!!”
kiss right cheek, kiss left cheek
“Au revoir!!!!”
kiss right cheek, kiss left cheek
“Merci!!!”
kiss right cheek, kiss left cheek

You get the point.

So we pull up to an apartment block and Nanny French gets out of the car and in a panic I realise I’m going to have to say goodbye.
So I stumble out of the car (it was one of those high ones you kinda fall out of), try to make sure my dress hasn’t exposed my knickers to the Parisian public, and then I realise Nanny French is right in front of me.

ARGH!

Ambushed!!!

“Oh ….uhm ….au revoir,” I stammer.
And she smiles and says “au revoir” and moves in to kiss my cheek.
Now as a typical Irish person, I’m all up for the craic as long as you keep your affection and body parts to yourself.
So this kissing business is pretty awkward pour moi on so many levels.
Plus, no one tells you where to put your hands.

When she put her hands on the upper parts of my arms, my hands were restricted, so in a panicked decision-making moment, I decided to put my hands on her waist.
Except she’s really small.
So my hands ended up in a higher position than her waist….
That’s right, dear readers.

Miss Hermia managed to fondle some of Nanny French’s side boob.

Merde.

I don’t know if she noticed, but if she did she ROCKS for not shouting “rape” or whatever the French equivalent is.
And it’s also comforting to know that our encounter-of-the-uncomfortably-close kind didn’t prompt her to ban The Boy from ever seeing me again.

*sigh*

Someone really needs to write a rule book for occasions like these….