Slip of the Tongue

Lady gardening

I was walking an elderly gent around my garden the other day, talking him through all the plants and shrubs. The father of a friend of mine, he is a keen and knowledgeable plantsman. We were having a nice time, swapping tips and techniques. Afterwards, I sat him down in the cuisine d'été, poured us a cup of Assam and cut him a slice of apple and walnut cake. It was all very civilised. For the most fleeting of moments, I felt quite the English gentlewoman.

It wasn't to last.

'You really do have a beautiful garden,' he said, sweetly, his eyes twinkling beneath his cap. 'But I must correct you on one thing.'

'Oh, really?' I smiled. I quite often get things wrong, so I wasn't too surprised to hear this. I'm always keen to learn from those gardeners far more expert than myself.

'Yes, dear. The word is clematis. Not clitoris.'

'Is that what I said?' I whispered, horrified.

'I'm afraid you did. If you are to be believed, your garden is home to three beautiful climbers. A Clitoris Montana, a Clitoris Nelly Moser and a Clitoris Jackmanii.'

Whoops. I wish I could say it was a one-off. But unfortunately, I do it rather a lot. We call them Howziters in our household, after the time I got the word Howitzer completely around my tits.

A visit to the Aquarium in the summer holidays ended awkwardly as I enthusiastically announced to a group of young boys that 'this beautiful octopus here has eight testicles.' I couldn't get them to focus on anything after that.

Or there was the time I sat in a dermatologist's consulting room, showing him my scabby inner elbow and asking ‘Do you think it's a type of eskimo?'

It seems that my brain finds it sufficient to pluck an approximation of the word out of the air, rather than an accurate, precise version. It does not exercise any quality-control before hurling the word onto my lips to wreak whatever havoc it can.

How many times have I said 'I was lying prostate on the floor.'? Too many to mention. And I'll bet you have too.

I don't know if this kind of lazy-brain function is a result of advancing years or simply lack of application on my part. I suspect it's a combination of both.

The fact that I live in France doesn't help. My French is not very good. I try, really I do. But I get flustered and once I get flustered I seem to go deaf. Then I end up looking at people with a very blank expression and they think I have had some kind of episode and usually start backing away. I don't blame them. I'd find myself weird, if I met me. The faux amis, or ‘false friends' as they are known in French, are what usually trip me up. If a word sounds the same in French as it does in English, you would think it fairly safe to assume they have the same meaning.

Not at all. That would be far too bloody simple!

I made this mistake with the word 'preservatif' in the butcher's shop. I asked for some 'saucisson sans preservatifs'. So far, so straightforward.

Well, no, not really. What I was asking for was 'sausage without a condom'. Yes, the word for condom is preservatif. No, I don't see the logic either.

I can't go into that butchers shop anymore.

Anyway, time to go. The sun is shining and the weather is mild. I must go outside and attend to my clitoris.