“It doesn’t get any more French than this,” thought Bev, as she sipped her café olé and listened to French internet radio on her headphones, a full-size flag of Gaul draped over her hessian office hutch. They would think she was so chic with her new Euro fringe, trimmed short on one side, and her empty Gauloises cigarette packet left ‘carelessly’ in the staff brew room.
From now on, she would insist that people address her, first, in French: excuse moi, silvois plaise. Otherwise she would simply ignore them.
Bev sipped café from her stylish silver tasse. She was very proud of this metal cup which she’d purchased at a flea market in Clapham. But no-one knew that, and being none the wiser, how would they dare challenge the authenticity of her Parisien chattels?
