Fire!

I teach English for a private company based in Toulouse.

The office is relaxed but serious and run to a high professional standard - but you can wear flip-flops.

That reminds me of a very old joke; “What do you call a Frenchman in sandals? Phillipe Phloppe”.

Is that racist? Or just anti-sandal?

I can’t tell anymore. It seems to me that it is making fun of something – French Pronunciation maybe. Is that the same as making fun of someone’s race?

I never wear flip-flops to work though. In fact, I never wear flip-flops – they hurt your toes, destroy your instep and … well …flip and flop about too much.

Sandals, I like, and always wear them in an extended summer period.

The woman who used to own the company told me that her father had said “Never trust a man who wears sandals”.
I think she told me this as an indication that she thought it was ok.

As an exuberant Lesbian she had a few issues with what her father had said and it probably partly explained her being in France and him being in New Zealand.

Apart from the sandals I dress up for work, smart casual sort of thing. Even when the temperature hits the forties I won’t wear shorts in the office.

I might if I was the boss, but I don’t teach so well when I’m in shorts, I get distracted by my knees.

Have you ever done that? While you’re driving to look down at your knees? Weird.

I have an electric razor that I keep in the car. But it’s not for my knees.

It remains there ready for the days I forget to shave before leaving the house on the way to work. It’s an emergency morning repair kit.

I also have a teenage son.

His beard is making it’s first tentative attempts to colonise his chin, and yesterday as I drove him into town to meet his girlfriend he took the razor from its secret location and innocently asked; “Can I use this?”

Foolishly I said yes.

This morning I left for work a little late and forgetful; racing along the empty roads I reached for the shaver and started attacking the stubble.

The battery ran out as I had completed one half - the left side - of my face. I was a teenager’s chin short of power.
I looked like the rock singer Crazy Arthur Brown on a bad day.

No one actually LAUGHED as I walked into the office although the secretary asked if I was all right, and since everyone else working here is female there was no one prepared to lend me a razor.

Usually I count myself as really lucky to be the only male in the place but today a little brotherly blade sharing would have been fine.

I had five minutes before the lesson to do something – too short a time to go to the shops, but probably just enough to prepare a face saving lesson.

I could sit in profile for an hour and a half, but that would break the first rule of matching body language with the client. I could probably just about cover most of the damage with a thoughtful hand stroking chin gesture but for 90 minutes?

The girls are sure to have mascara, maybe a paint job?

Or You Tube?

I sat down with the client and before their shock could fully register in their eyes I announced.

“OK, what do you know about the Crazy World of Arthur Brown?”