July 4th, 1990

July 4th, 1990
At home

Timing, as they say, is everything, which is all I could think about tonight when mum poked her head in the living room, after answering the phone.
“It’s for yoo hoo,” she said, with her hand covering the mouthpiece.
“Who is it?”
David, David, David!
“The wee Frenchman,” she smiled.
“Who’s the wee Frenchman?” My aunt asked, as I got up off the floor, from playing monopoly with my cousins.
“His name’s John John,” mum said.
“Jean Jacques,” I snarled, on my past her.
“Kar in’s got a French boyfriend,” my young cousin Kate sang.

I closed the door to the living room and picked up the phone.
“Bon soir, Ecossais. It is beautiful night here in my city and I wish to tell you this.”
“Oh, ok, thanks,” I stuttered. “It’s pouring here!”
He laughed. “When will you return to Par ee?”
“I don’t know. I’m buying a house so I have to be careful with my money.”
“Ah, Ecossais! You are buying here, en France?”
“No, ici en Angleterre.”
“Mais oui,” he said. “With your parents close, this is their wish, oui?”
“As much as I love the French countryside, I think it’ll be easier this way without having to commute to work.”
“Then I say good luck and you still have key for my apartment?”
“I do actually. Do you want me to send it back to you?”
“Non, non, non, non, non,” he said, sounding more French than ever. “You keep and you come when you have had enough of the English rain and the green grass.”
I laughed. “Fair enough.”

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