Sex Therapy and Fame

Something about group learning gives me a sense of family. Perhaps it's the cocoon-like feeling of being together in a small space, with basic needs and a common interest. In this case, surviving the French Language. We were in the bosom of our professeur, Stephanie, supporting each other with verb conjugations, bouncing our vocabulary insecurities to one and other like ping pong balls.

We have Ricardo from Brasil, Peotre from Poland, Anna from Austria and Caroline, from the Czech Republic, and little ole moi from Australia. Day one began in the usual way. Group interrogation: Age, lifestyle, specific food likes and dislikes.

Ricardo is 25, lives in a two-man tent and works in a "bonk" (bank). Peotre is 24, lives with a host family, likes going to the gym, night clubs, and eats pizza for breakfast. Anna is from Austria and she is beautiful, perhaps because she is seventeen. Caroline is 36, from the Czech Republic and speaks perfect French. She has to be here for a compulsory university placement. I am 44, and nobody asked me my age. It's part of the exercise dammit.

French in the cocoon of the classroom is sweet. Trying it on real people, a harsh contrast. One day, riding my bike to class, I got caught in a huge downpour of rain. In a panic, I rode into the driveway of an apartment block and took cover under a tree. Unfortunately, the electronic gate closed behind me, leaving me locked inside a security compound. No way of getting out, I was on the inside with my bike. I jumped the fence, escaping, but left my bike behind bars. Later that day I returned to reclaim my wheels. I nervously buzzed a random apartment number and waited. "Bonjour" answered a lady. I turned to face the security speakerphone and camera. In French I said, "Today, I ride my bike, and today there is rain. I am here, I am not here, and now I am here. I need my bike now... please." There was no answer, just a loud, long BUZZ. The gate slowly opened, the speakerphone hung up.

Two days later I saw a man riding his motorcycle. His stand was dangling down, scraping the road, which looked dangerous. Rob urged me to let him know, "Use your French, darling." At the stop light I stuck my head out of the car window and screamed out to him (in English), “Scuze me, your thingy is hanging down!”. Rob mumbles, "Well that was money well spent."

My husband's language class takes place when he turns on the TV or radio: "That's how I learn babe." On supermarket runs, I do the running and Rob hides in the car. He says being in the cereal aisle while smelling the Poissoniere's fish confuses him. One time I got back into the car, the radio was on. It was the usual French jumble with a couple of recognisable phrases like, "I am not happy", "She is 27 years old", then I heard something and said to Rob, "That sounded like, veritable orgasm". Rob said, "Yes, it was. It's a sex therapist programme. I listen to this programme every day, it's brilliant!" He listens to the sex therapist while I do the groceries. Let you know when I see the results.

Last week at the gym I noticed a photography crew slinking around the weight resistance area. They were busily photographing a man, who was being directed to pose on various machines. It looked like a professional job.

The director of the crew approached me and asked a few questions. I quickly explained my limitations with the French language, but the director continued. He gestured to me that his crew would like to take a few photos.

“Of moi?" This is the boost I need right now. Despite my consumption of baguettes and cheeses, and feeling a little sluggish, I must be looking pretty buff. These professionals recognised this. Perhaps I represented fit, middle-aged women all over the world. I wondered what publication they were shooting for. Maybe I could get a copy.

I answered, “Pas de probléme, bien sur”. So there I sat, pumped, weight set at 30kg. I waited for them to set up, direct me. Maybe my hair needed re-ponytailing. The crew stood there for a minute, then in English the director asked, “Now is ok? Or you want finish?” I didn’t understand. "Now is ok for me", I said. Then the male model who they had been shooting, came over and coyly explained, “Um, they need to take some photos of me on this machine, it's ok?”

“Ah-ha-ha, ok, pas de probléme! Je suis tres desolée” I’ll just move over to the side here and shoot myself right now, and if I can't, can someone else?

I shuffled to the side and looked on, pretending that none of this ever happened. Why I hung around watching is completely unknown to me. The director asked me if I was “On 'oliday”. In a spin, I spat out a phrase that I had learned that day in French class - "Oui, j’adore cette ville!” Yes, I love this town!

I guessed my workout was over. On my bike ride home, I ran into a prickly bush and Rob spent 20 minutes tweezering thorns out of my bleeding arm.