Monsieur/dame

"Clients should be greeted using the formula 'Bonjour, Madame' or 'Bonjour, Monsieur'".

So far, so good. What could go wrong with that?

There is, however, one slight problem: what happens when you CAN'T TELL? It may sound callous (not callus, there will be no podiatric problems in this post) but it does happen, and surprisingly often.

The hair, the face, the clothes- none affords any indication as to the gender of the customer. I look, subtly but carefully, for facial hair. Still no luck? I look at the hands- rings can be a giveaway. Then there's the voice, but that doesn't always help, either. Time to give in...

"Bonjour, M...(mumbles and turns round as if to look for essential equipment behind chair).

Ah, the thrills of life as a checkout girl.

Back to the cupboard, now, I think: I may have offended the National Federation of Bearded Ladies and I should probably lay low for a while (I'm small, so that shouldn't be too hard...)

The Lesser-Spotted Tree-Climbing Shopping Trolley

It gived me a happy. You can has happy too!

English translation: It made me smile so I thought I'd share it.

Is it because I is English?

Some pearls of wisdom from work:

"Oh look, Catherine's drinking tea. She's definitely English".

"Oh look, a sandwich made with sliced bread! Must be because she's English..."

"The till is...tired? You have such an English sense of humour..."

"There are cookies in the break room! Food from your country! Well, America, but it's all the same, isn't it?"

I try to smile. I try to take it all with le flegme anglais- a stiff upper lip (not sure how compatible smiling is with a stiff upper lip in cases not involving Botox...)

But inside? Inside I am SEETHING. Some of you will be aware of how strongly I dislike being defined by my nationality, a nationality I have accepted for administrative ease: my preferred options of 'British' and 'Catholic' (I assure you, in terms of cultural identification, I find the latter term to be more applicable than 'English') do not work in France.

And as far as my sense of humour goes, I find the idea that the entire English population has the same slightly warped and gnome-based take on things as I do frankly disturbing.

Yes, I judge people who buy wine in plastic bottles

I am currently, against my better judgement but for my better tax credit rating (the gnomes betrayed me to the French authorities, darn and blast them) working as a supermarket cashier. From time to time, mainly for my own amusement (I like to think it's a form of sociological study in an attempt to justify five years of university education, but let's face it, I may be somewhat deluded) I try to imagine what kind of person would buy the items passing, with a rather satisfying BEEP, beneath my nose. (Incidentally, the cash register only speaks in capitals, so it goes BEEP, and not beep- rather like Death in the Discworld books). Marscapone? Middle-class female, married, dinner party. Three bags of cat litter and a tin of tuna? That one speaks for itself. Raclette and potatoes? Possibly winter sports types. Wine in a plastic bottle?

Oh dear.

OH DEAR.

I suspect the gnomes may be behind this one two. It's their kind of game.

EDIT: 'one two'? well, from someone who gave 'cinquante-dix centimes' in change this afternoon, what can you expect? Hmmm. Back to the cupboard methinks.