Life The continental market has trundled into Liverpool City Centre again, a small union of Europeans in the heart of the shopping centre. I'm currently sustaining the after effects of a Bratwurst, potato provencal and waffle. Lets just say that up unti about five minutes ago, when I started sipping this nicely steaming mug of tea, my breath smelt like the inside of Alain Ducasse's oven. I also bought some red berry jam, for the pretty shameless reason that the stall holder looked like Irene Jacob and I wanted to continue the illusion that I'd walked into a French movie. True to form, what French I have picked up over the past few months deserted me as I found myself trying to parry her hard sales technique:
Me: Some red berry jam please. (I pass her the jar)
Her: You know it's three jars for five pounds
I'm mesmerized momentarily by her accent.
Me: I'll just take that thanks.
She puts it in the bag.
Her: And would you like anything from our selection of mayonneses?
Me: No thanks. Just that today.
I hand her the money. She smiles that kind of smile only French women can smile - like they know more than you do about everything and that you're missing something vitally important. She passes me the jar. I want to say 'merci'.
Me: Thanks. Bye.
Considering my history with French women and in fact anyone from the continent I think I got off lightly this time.

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