Monday, January 29, 2007


Latin and French

It’s a common aphorism that New Year resolutions are to be made and not kept. Perspicacious soul that I am, I gave up the practice of straining by cerebrum to think of a resolution and consequently exercising my will to keep it long ago. However, ever since I had to adopt a residential address which does not have a city as its last line, I have started creating some things for me to do over the next year. They are not resolutions. Far from it. I wouldn’t call them goals either. Nor targets. They’re just things to do. Like those on Cartoon Network.

After having celebrated the onset of the year of Bond, and confirmed that this year would have the maximum possible number of weekends, I set about devising Things To Do. The list had the usual entries – curb my recalcitrant nature, concentrate on my GPA and the et ceteras, with some unusual ones – work out, make it to the insti sports team. Needless to say the first week back put an end to the unusual aspirations. A sojourn of the gym preceded by an excuriating run around the stadium left me wondering why someone would inflict such torture on oneself. The insti tennis team came back from the sports meet minus honours and full of determined players who wish to do well ‘next time’, thereby ensuring that there was no room for amateurs wishing to take advantage of the penury of professionals – both in quality and quantity.

As regards the usual entries, I’ve not been caught in a ‘compromising position’ yet, and the GPA story has not raised its ugly head so far. The wait for that dreaded day continues.

A new entry was added under Unusual this time around, albeit after a couple of days on campus – learn French, the language of La France, the dialect of De Gaulle, the baritone of the Bourbons. This singularly unusual development took place courtesy an exponent of the Boomerang Theory, who informed me that depositing the princely sum of a grand and a half would enable admission into the world of champagne and Zizou. The idea appealed, the ATM cards got swiped, the pockets emptied and Lefty and the lousy louts turned up at the French classes with the Boomerang duo in tow.

These French classes are piquant to the core. They are taken by a la belle from the land of Nicole Kidman, undoubtedly another of her kin. Her name is supposedly Orianne (pronounced Oh-ee-aana). She might be the beautiful spy one reads of, but otherwise there is no reason to suppose that Orianne is a sobriquet. Watching her lapse into staccato mode takes the breath away from most of the unfairer sex. The teacher apart, these classes cause a lot of mental malaise, primarily because of my resolve to master the language. It should be evident that like all my other Things To Do, I’m failing miserably at this too; otherwise this blog would have been sprinkled with considerable doses of Lingua Franca.

So far so good though. The day might yet come when there will be, not sprinkles but a smorgasbord of French dishes on this blogspan. Status till then – satisfied with “Je m’appelle Lefty” and searching for further modicums of Lingua Franca.

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