La Ferme de l’Église
In the proximity of Bayeux, Normandy
August 31st
8.00 p.m.
· 600,000 Normande cows have been relieved of their milk for a second time and are settling down for a good night’s sleep under the stars… I mean, clouds and drizzle; a well-deserved wet rest especially for their tired jaws.
· Three million Normans lie snug in front of their telly with their bellies full. Many are sipping the compulsory glass of calvados to aid their digestion. Lots are also leafing through their crumpled copy of Ouest France, departmental edition; skimming through the bold titles and snorting occasionally in disgust just before the evening news commences.
· A million tourists are getting ready to get an early night’s sleep after having spent the day visiting all kinds of interesting places. They have uttered so many adjectives that their exhausted jaws are hanging limp – incidentally, just like the cows’ jaws!
Daphne and I are excited as for once, we shall be different from the tourists… and the cows. We are not going to bed today although we are a trifle sleepy - not from the long walk, but from a full day of tiresome pondering. After much consideration, we have decided (unanimously – quite an achievement!) upon our course of action for the upcoming evening:
1. Daphne will do her best to follow French conversation. She will bring along the tiny Collins French-English dictionary, which she will tuck in her handbag to fondle discreetly for luck in case of tongue jam. If she’ll find herself in conversational difficulty, she will fall back on her favoured and effective defence mechanism – smiling and nodding her way out of the situation.
2. We have bought a bottle of aged Pinot Gris produced in Alsace. Our line of thought: since Normandy is cider country, Alsace wine might hopefully be a bit more exotic for our hosts.
3. I have dressed up in trousers and plain shirt while Daphne is wearing a colourful, semi-casual dress. We are hoping to look neither snobbishly smart nor rudely casual.
We walk out of our little farm apartment at 8.15 p.m. A cold wind bites through our clothes as we cross the slippery cobbled courtyard, carefully avoiding the rain puddles. I ring the bell of the main door and in less than ten seconds Françoise ushers us into the comfortable indoor warmth.
‘Bonjours,’ she says, in her quick speech which to our untrained ears sounds more like ‘Bjour.’ The use of vowels in this part of France seems to be considered superfluous. She offers me her cheek which I kiss lightly. She offers me the other, like Jesus advices (Normandy has a long Christian tradition); then the first; then the other again. ‘That’s the Norman way,’ she says by way of explanation. She smiles to Daphne. ‘You look lovely!’ She clasps her hand and adds, ‘Come along, everyone is here for the occasion.’
We look at her with puzzled faces.
‘Ohh… haven’t I told you? It’s Jean-Michel’s birthday! Would you believe it? He’s forty-nine.’
Daphne gives me a quick side-glance. It is obvious that she did not tell us of her husband’s birthday so we would not bother buying a proper present.
The place has the cosy stuffiness of an ancient, well groomed dining room. A number of people are seated on the dark, high-backed chairs. ‘Ahh, mes amis!’ Jean-Michel says as soon as he sees us. He comes forward, kisses Daphne four times then shakes my hand warmly.
‘Bon anniversaire!’ I say, giving him the wine.
‘Pinot Gris… hmmm one of my favourites!’ he says, eyeing the bottle with pursed lips. ‘Thanks. Let me introduce you to our friends and neighbours. This is Nathalie and her husband Jean-Luc.’ Unlike his wife, Jean-Michel speaks slower, perhaps purposefully, so his French is slightly less daunting.
In the proximity of Bayeux, Normandy
August 31st
8.00 p.m.
· 600,000 Normande cows have been relieved of their milk for a second time and are settling down for a good night’s sleep under the stars… I mean, clouds and drizzle; a well-deserved wet rest especially for their tired jaws.
· Three million Normans lie snug in front of their telly with their bellies full. Many are sipping the compulsory glass of calvados to aid their digestion. Lots are also leafing through their crumpled copy of Ouest France, departmental edition; skimming through the bold titles and snorting occasionally in disgust just before the evening news commences.
· A million tourists are getting ready to get an early night’s sleep after having spent the day visiting all kinds of interesting places. They have uttered so many adjectives that their exhausted jaws are hanging limp – incidentally, just like the cows’ jaws!
Daphne and I are excited as for once, we shall be different from the tourists… and the cows. We are not going to bed today although we are a trifle sleepy - not from the long walk, but from a full day of tiresome pondering. After much consideration, we have decided (unanimously – quite an achievement!) upon our course of action for the upcoming evening:
1. Daphne will do her best to follow French conversation. She will bring along the tiny Collins French-English dictionary, which she will tuck in her handbag to fondle discreetly for luck in case of tongue jam. If she’ll find herself in conversational difficulty, she will fall back on her favoured and effective defence mechanism – smiling and nodding her way out of the situation.
2. We have bought a bottle of aged Pinot Gris produced in Alsace. Our line of thought: since Normandy is cider country, Alsace wine might hopefully be a bit more exotic for our hosts.
3. I have dressed up in trousers and plain shirt while Daphne is wearing a colourful, semi-casual dress. We are hoping to look neither snobbishly smart nor rudely casual.
We walk out of our little farm apartment at 8.15 p.m. A cold wind bites through our clothes as we cross the slippery cobbled courtyard, carefully avoiding the rain puddles. I ring the bell of the main door and in less than ten seconds Françoise ushers us into the comfortable indoor warmth.
‘Bonjours,’ she says, in her quick speech which to our untrained ears sounds more like ‘Bjour.’ The use of vowels in this part of France seems to be considered superfluous. She offers me her cheek which I kiss lightly. She offers me the other, like Jesus advices (Normandy has a long Christian tradition); then the first; then the other again. ‘That’s the Norman way,’ she says by way of explanation. She smiles to Daphne. ‘You look lovely!’ She clasps her hand and adds, ‘Come along, everyone is here for the occasion.’
We look at her with puzzled faces.
‘Ohh… haven’t I told you? It’s Jean-Michel’s birthday! Would you believe it? He’s forty-nine.’
Daphne gives me a quick side-glance. It is obvious that she did not tell us of her husband’s birthday so we would not bother buying a proper present.
The place has the cosy stuffiness of an ancient, well groomed dining room. A number of people are seated on the dark, high-backed chairs. ‘Ahh, mes amis!’ Jean-Michel says as soon as he sees us. He comes forward, kisses Daphne four times then shakes my hand warmly.
‘Bon anniversaire!’ I say, giving him the wine.
‘Pinot Gris… hmmm one of my favourites!’ he says, eyeing the bottle with pursed lips. ‘Thanks. Let me introduce you to our friends and neighbours. This is Nathalie and her husband Jean-Luc.’ Unlike his wife, Jean-Michel speaks slower, perhaps purposefully, so his French is slightly less daunting.
I try to kiss the lady four times, but she laughs wildly during the whole operation making my kiss-planting very erratic. Meanwhile, her husband does the same to Daphne. Then Jean-Luc and I shake hands. I notice that unlike his wife, his eyes droop at the outer edges and his face is fixed in a sombre expression that seems to match his battered tweed jacket. He looks like he’s about to cry at any moment.
‘Nice meeting you,’ he says. His French speech sounds smooth and polished.
I’m starting to relish this greeting ritual, as in Malta we’re not used to this kissing bonanza.
‘Juliette and her husband, also Jean-Luc,’ adds Jean-Michel. ‘He is a master carpenter and she’s a teacher,’ he whispers softly in my ear.
Jean-Luc must be a popular name indeed in these parts, I think, as I repeat the same ritual of kissing and hand shaking. I’m starting to get the hang of it:
1) pout your lips,
2) lightly smack one cheek,
3) pull your head slightly back and turn it smoothly, just avoiding brushing against the woman’s lips,
4) smack the remaining cheek lightly.
5) Repeat for the required number of times.
Juliette receives my kisses with more composure than Nathalie, while her husband uses one hand to shake mine and at the same time pats me on the shoulder with the other. His lips moon up at one corner in a fixed grin.
‘And I think you have met Horst and his wife, Greta, during breakfast,’ says Jean-Michel, bursting my bubble of thought. ‘They have been staying at the farm every summer for the last ten years.’
‘Hello again; how are you?’ says Horst in broken English infused with a heavy German accent.
As soon as I shake his hand, I pout my lips in preparation for the kissing of his wife who suddenly springs to attention and towers over us like a colossus. Ignoring my pre-pouted lips, she sticks out a steely hand towards me; massive, sausage-like fingers are splayed out in handshake anticipation. Feeling awkward after so much cheek kissing, I clasp her hand. She clamps my hand in an iron grip and shakes it with such force that she almost dislocates my shoulder.
From the corner of my eye, I notice that the French people are grinning, surprisingly enough, even the droopy-eyed Jean-Luc.
We all sit by the long table and Jean-Michel makes his rounds with a bottle of dark, turbid cider that smells deceptively sweet. The aromatic smell of burning pinewood in the hearth is intoxicating.
Daphne seems to be managing well despite her fear of spoken French, and the conversation criss-crosses along the table. She notices me smirking from the corner of her eyes and pinches my lap.
‘Nice meeting you,’ he says. His French speech sounds smooth and polished.
I’m starting to relish this greeting ritual, as in Malta we’re not used to this kissing bonanza.
‘Juliette and her husband, also Jean-Luc,’ adds Jean-Michel. ‘He is a master carpenter and she’s a teacher,’ he whispers softly in my ear.
Jean-Luc must be a popular name indeed in these parts, I think, as I repeat the same ritual of kissing and hand shaking. I’m starting to get the hang of it:
1) pout your lips,
2) lightly smack one cheek,
3) pull your head slightly back and turn it smoothly, just avoiding brushing against the woman’s lips,
4) smack the remaining cheek lightly.
5) Repeat for the required number of times.
Juliette receives my kisses with more composure than Nathalie, while her husband uses one hand to shake mine and at the same time pats me on the shoulder with the other. His lips moon up at one corner in a fixed grin.
‘And I think you have met Horst and his wife, Greta, during breakfast,’ says Jean-Michel, bursting my bubble of thought. ‘They have been staying at the farm every summer for the last ten years.’
‘Hello again; how are you?’ says Horst in broken English infused with a heavy German accent.
As soon as I shake his hand, I pout my lips in preparation for the kissing of his wife who suddenly springs to attention and towers over us like a colossus. Ignoring my pre-pouted lips, she sticks out a steely hand towards me; massive, sausage-like fingers are splayed out in handshake anticipation. Feeling awkward after so much cheek kissing, I clasp her hand. She clamps my hand in an iron grip and shakes it with such force that she almost dislocates my shoulder.
From the corner of my eye, I notice that the French people are grinning, surprisingly enough, even the droopy-eyed Jean-Luc.
We all sit by the long table and Jean-Michel makes his rounds with a bottle of dark, turbid cider that smells deceptively sweet. The aromatic smell of burning pinewood in the hearth is intoxicating.
Daphne seems to be managing well despite her fear of spoken French, and the conversation criss-crosses along the table. She notices me smirking from the corner of her eyes and pinches my lap.
Horst, seated next to me, grins sheepishly at the cider in his glass. ‘Very goot!’ he says, grabbing the glass from the stem in a beer-mug grip. He flings his head backwards and drains all the contents in one breath. The two Jean-Lucs clutch their glasses with three fingers and take long, composed drinks, whereas their ladies indulge in small, probing sips. Daphne’s cheeks flush red hot as soon as she tastes the first sip. |
I am baffled whether to drink the Teutonic way (manly) or the Gallic way (gentlemanly) so I settle for a compromise. I drain half my glass using four fingers (by the time I realise that my little finger is sticking out awkwardly, it’s too late to go back). The liquid is sweet and leaves a slightly sharp aftertaste; the bubbles tickling my inner cheeks make me smack my lips, raising a roar of laughter from the whole congregation.
Daphne kicks me from beneath the table.
‘So, what do you think?’ says Jean-Michel after the giggles die down.
I juggle with words in my head. ‘Sweet but intense,’ I manage to say in French, hoping that I did not inadvertently say something rude. My French is not so good that I can speak with confidence, and often, I tend to fall back on Italian, in which I am fluent, to help me remember a French word. Sometimes however, this method makes me come up with French words that do not mean at all what I intend.
Jean-Michel beams.
Jean-Luc-of-the-stiff-tweed-jacket-that-has-seen-better-days raises his glass solemnly. ‘To your health Jean-Michel,’ he says, and for a moment his droopy eyes lift and sparkle.
‘To your health!’ everybody repeats in a staggered chorus.
Jean-Luc the carpenter smiles at me and fondles his beard in contemplation.
‘Tell us about Malta,’ he says. ‘How’s life there? Is it dear? Do you have good wages?’
‘It’s like most places in Europe,’ I say. ‘People complain that prices are always on the rise and the wages are never high enough. Yet, all in all, we are not that badly off. Are you thinking of settling there?’
‘Not really,’ he says, shrugging, ‘but you never know what we might decide one day, when my Juliette retires. As soon as she does, I will give up my activity too. Perhaps we might retire to a sunny country like yours.’
His wife gives him a loving slap on the shoulder and smiles. ‘Don’t push your luck,’ she says.
‘Juliette, you are due to retire soon I presume,’ adds Jean-Michel, grinning.
‘Stop it,’ says Françoise looking cross. ‘Don’t take any notice of him, my dear.’
‘I won’t.’ replies Juliette. ‘Today he can get away with it because he’s on the brink of being half a century old, poor boy.’
Françoise parades an array of colourful tarts before us that each vie for our attention. Each is alluring in its own way – sexy strawberry, smooth apple, tangy rhubarb and mysterious blackberry. We devour the tarts with relish, complementing our host for her assets (mostly in the field of cuisine).
The company gets noisier in proportion to the growing number of empty cider bottles stashed aside in a corner.
Jean-Michel’s cider is sweet and mellow; yet, it subtly gets a hold on everybody. Horst is grinning and nodding vigorously to anyone who speaks, even when he’s not the person being address. I suspect that he’s not following a single word. Greta has somehow lost her sergeant-major composure and is gradually sliding slowly down her chair so that now she is sitting at the same height of her diminutive husband. Her cheeks are flushed, and she is beaming vacantly.
Jean-Michel bangs a teaspoon against a glass. ‘Right! It’s the time for the jokes. Richard, we have a custom here of saying jokes during parties – the gentlemen I mean. Are you game?’
‘Well, yes...’ I say reluctantly, squeezing my memory to find a very simple joke that I might possibly translate into French. Anything complicated and I’ll mess up.
‘Good! I will have the first go!’
Now it’s Daphne who’s smirking.
The joke telling takes a clockwise turn. Everyone seems to be in a jubilant mood, and laughter comes naturally. Nathalie is the exception of the clique. She’s not jubilant – she’s an over-the-top merrymaker. She laughs almost at anything, so the effect of jokes on her is a phenomenon that I have never seen before. She laughs wildly, crying and hiccupping and sometimes even snorting, and in turn she makes everyone present laugh even more. I make a mental note for my diary – ‘Nathalie the laughter inducer’. When she gets going, it is humanely impossible not to get carried away, and even her solemn husband is carried along.
My turn is due, and I feel terrified of saying a word that might sound offensive or rude. Thank goodness I remember a not-so-hilarious and yet relatively safe joke about the Maltese granting the privilege to European Union countries of joining them.
Surprisingly everyone laughs, and I give Daphne a smug grin.
As soon as the laughter dies down, an unnatural hush falls in the room. All eyes are riveted on Horst who is seated beside me.
He clears his throat, blushes a bit and looks from the corner of his eyes at his wife. Greta is still dazed. ‘Ahsoo!’ he finally says.
I feel uncomfortable as all eyes turn on me.
Daphne nudges me with her elbow on the ribs. ‘They expect you to translate!’ she whispers with a giggle.
I am thinking of feigning a fainting, when I feel something rubbing against my hand beneath the table. It’s a small book – the dictionary.
‘Thanks a lot!’ I say to Daphne who is grinning sheepishly. I run my fingers over the worn cover for luck, as if it were a Buddha statue’s head.
‘Az you lot know, I am fery fond of France and fizit almost every year,’ says Horst, pausing to let me translate.
I take a deep breath. ‘Comme vous le savez…’ I stagger. Everyone nods in encouragement and somehow, I gather momentum.
‘Last year, while ve vere in Paris…’ he adds, stealing a glance at his wife who utters a hybrid between a laugh and a purr, and flicks her eyelids.
As I repeat in my stumbling French, Horst seems take confidence. ‘Ve vere told that there vould be no firework display at Eurodisney, as the authorities had banned their use. It seemed that a regiment of French soldiers garrisoning the city had surrendered to a group of Italian tourists on hearing the racket!’ He begins to laugh hysterically at his own joke.
I feel a lump in my throat. Good Lord, I cannot translate that, I say to myself. Oh my God what shall I do? Eager eyes are waiting for me to go on with it and I feel the ticking of a bomb timer in my head. In an instant three options come to mind:
‘We were told that there would be no firework display at Eurodisney,’ I say, my voice trembling, ‘as the French authorities had banned their use. It seemed that a contingent of Italian army officers visiting the city had surrendered to a group of tourists on hearing the racket!’
The group bursts into laughter and suddenly everyone is clapping. Nathalie is screaming wildly and Jean-Luc, her husband, is clasping her by the shoulders as if trying to hold her from falling apart.
I can’t believe it! I have pulled it through. I flick my eyebrows up at Daphne in a gesture of triumph.
Jean-Luc the carpenter and Jean-Michel stand up, shake my hands warmly and to my surprise they hug me and pat me on the shoulders.
‘You are a great translator,’ says Jean-Michel, between hiccups of laugher. ‘You should be in the diplomatic corps.’
‘I’m not half that good,’ I say.
‘No, no, you are!’ says Jean-Luc. ‘You’ve got the knack!’
‘Well…thanks!’ I reply, ‘I’m Maltese, you see.’
Françoise comes over to me and gives me a hug. ‘Don’t let these two brutes get away with it, Richard,’ she says, shaking her head in mock anger.
I look at her, puzzled.
‘What a pair of bullies!’ she adds. ‘And you Horst, you were in league with them too, no?’
Horst grins and wipes off the tears of laughter.
‘It was an awful joke you played on our Maltese friend!’ she says.
My cheeks are ablaze. ‘Well, you certainly have a sense of humour in this part of the world,’ I say.
Daphne is giggling.
Daphne kicks me from beneath the table.
‘So, what do you think?’ says Jean-Michel after the giggles die down.
I juggle with words in my head. ‘Sweet but intense,’ I manage to say in French, hoping that I did not inadvertently say something rude. My French is not so good that I can speak with confidence, and often, I tend to fall back on Italian, in which I am fluent, to help me remember a French word. Sometimes however, this method makes me come up with French words that do not mean at all what I intend.
Jean-Michel beams.
Jean-Luc-of-the-stiff-tweed-jacket-that-has-seen-better-days raises his glass solemnly. ‘To your health Jean-Michel,’ he says, and for a moment his droopy eyes lift and sparkle.
‘To your health!’ everybody repeats in a staggered chorus.
Jean-Luc the carpenter smiles at me and fondles his beard in contemplation.
‘Tell us about Malta,’ he says. ‘How’s life there? Is it dear? Do you have good wages?’
‘It’s like most places in Europe,’ I say. ‘People complain that prices are always on the rise and the wages are never high enough. Yet, all in all, we are not that badly off. Are you thinking of settling there?’
‘Not really,’ he says, shrugging, ‘but you never know what we might decide one day, when my Juliette retires. As soon as she does, I will give up my activity too. Perhaps we might retire to a sunny country like yours.’
His wife gives him a loving slap on the shoulder and smiles. ‘Don’t push your luck,’ she says.
‘Juliette, you are due to retire soon I presume,’ adds Jean-Michel, grinning.
‘Stop it,’ says Françoise looking cross. ‘Don’t take any notice of him, my dear.’
‘I won’t.’ replies Juliette. ‘Today he can get away with it because he’s on the brink of being half a century old, poor boy.’
Françoise parades an array of colourful tarts before us that each vie for our attention. Each is alluring in its own way – sexy strawberry, smooth apple, tangy rhubarb and mysterious blackberry. We devour the tarts with relish, complementing our host for her assets (mostly in the field of cuisine).
The company gets noisier in proportion to the growing number of empty cider bottles stashed aside in a corner.
Jean-Michel’s cider is sweet and mellow; yet, it subtly gets a hold on everybody. Horst is grinning and nodding vigorously to anyone who speaks, even when he’s not the person being address. I suspect that he’s not following a single word. Greta has somehow lost her sergeant-major composure and is gradually sliding slowly down her chair so that now she is sitting at the same height of her diminutive husband. Her cheeks are flushed, and she is beaming vacantly.
Jean-Michel bangs a teaspoon against a glass. ‘Right! It’s the time for the jokes. Richard, we have a custom here of saying jokes during parties – the gentlemen I mean. Are you game?’
‘Well, yes...’ I say reluctantly, squeezing my memory to find a very simple joke that I might possibly translate into French. Anything complicated and I’ll mess up.
‘Good! I will have the first go!’
Now it’s Daphne who’s smirking.
The joke telling takes a clockwise turn. Everyone seems to be in a jubilant mood, and laughter comes naturally. Nathalie is the exception of the clique. She’s not jubilant – she’s an over-the-top merrymaker. She laughs almost at anything, so the effect of jokes on her is a phenomenon that I have never seen before. She laughs wildly, crying and hiccupping and sometimes even snorting, and in turn she makes everyone present laugh even more. I make a mental note for my diary – ‘Nathalie the laughter inducer’. When she gets going, it is humanely impossible not to get carried away, and even her solemn husband is carried along.
My turn is due, and I feel terrified of saying a word that might sound offensive or rude. Thank goodness I remember a not-so-hilarious and yet relatively safe joke about the Maltese granting the privilege to European Union countries of joining them.
Surprisingly everyone laughs, and I give Daphne a smug grin.
As soon as the laughter dies down, an unnatural hush falls in the room. All eyes are riveted on Horst who is seated beside me.
He clears his throat, blushes a bit and looks from the corner of his eyes at his wife. Greta is still dazed. ‘Ahsoo!’ he finally says.
I feel uncomfortable as all eyes turn on me.
Daphne nudges me with her elbow on the ribs. ‘They expect you to translate!’ she whispers with a giggle.
I am thinking of feigning a fainting, when I feel something rubbing against my hand beneath the table. It’s a small book – the dictionary.
‘Thanks a lot!’ I say to Daphne who is grinning sheepishly. I run my fingers over the worn cover for luck, as if it were a Buddha statue’s head.
‘Az you lot know, I am fery fond of France and fizit almost every year,’ says Horst, pausing to let me translate.
I take a deep breath. ‘Comme vous le savez…’ I stagger. Everyone nods in encouragement and somehow, I gather momentum.
‘Last year, while ve vere in Paris…’ he adds, stealing a glance at his wife who utters a hybrid between a laugh and a purr, and flicks her eyelids.
As I repeat in my stumbling French, Horst seems take confidence. ‘Ve vere told that there vould be no firework display at Eurodisney, as the authorities had banned their use. It seemed that a regiment of French soldiers garrisoning the city had surrendered to a group of Italian tourists on hearing the racket!’ He begins to laugh hysterically at his own joke.
I feel a lump in my throat. Good Lord, I cannot translate that, I say to myself. Oh my God what shall I do? Eager eyes are waiting for me to go on with it and I feel the ticking of a bomb timer in my head. In an instant three options come to mind:
- I could refuse to translate the joke saying that it’s offensive, but then I will be pressed to tell them what it’s about and there will be trouble.
- I could translate the joke as it is hoping that the French would not take offence – utterly unlikely.
- I might distort the joke in translating it, hoping that no-one would realise…
‘We were told that there would be no firework display at Eurodisney,’ I say, my voice trembling, ‘as the French authorities had banned their use. It seemed that a contingent of Italian army officers visiting the city had surrendered to a group of tourists on hearing the racket!’
The group bursts into laughter and suddenly everyone is clapping. Nathalie is screaming wildly and Jean-Luc, her husband, is clasping her by the shoulders as if trying to hold her from falling apart.
I can’t believe it! I have pulled it through. I flick my eyebrows up at Daphne in a gesture of triumph.
Jean-Luc the carpenter and Jean-Michel stand up, shake my hands warmly and to my surprise they hug me and pat me on the shoulders.
‘You are a great translator,’ says Jean-Michel, between hiccups of laugher. ‘You should be in the diplomatic corps.’
‘I’m not half that good,’ I say.
‘No, no, you are!’ says Jean-Luc. ‘You’ve got the knack!’
‘Well…thanks!’ I reply, ‘I’m Maltese, you see.’
Françoise comes over to me and gives me a hug. ‘Don’t let these two brutes get away with it, Richard,’ she says, shaking her head in mock anger.
I look at her, puzzled.
‘What a pair of bullies!’ she adds. ‘And you Horst, you were in league with them too, no?’
Horst grins and wipes off the tears of laughter.
‘It was an awful joke you played on our Maltese friend!’ she says.
My cheeks are ablaze. ‘Well, you certainly have a sense of humour in this part of the world,’ I say.
Daphne is giggling.