In Toulouse just before Christmas for the Ulster Rugby match, I once again proudly trotted out my schoolboy French. (In case you have forgotten, I often brag about my Grade 1 O Level pass from 1968, in the days when a grade 1 was the top one!) Linguistically, things went well at first and I ordered drinks and food with no trouble at all. Before the match and wandering around the Christmas market, I engaged in short conversations with more of the locals with limited success. After the match, emboldened by a famous victory and some vin de la region, I bit off much more than I could chew. Staggering from one franglais-based encounter to the next, it quickly became