Just returned from across The Channel where I attended my first French Christening. The lady wife’s youngest sister is married to a charming French chap and we were invited across to fly the flag and keep the British end up.
Interesting …. very interesting.
The service was a scream (in all senses of the word) with loads of mini-tadpoles getting the treatment from an over-excited flapping priest. After a while it became obvious that the priest was making it all up as he went along and the assembled parents, friends and relatives – although cooing and oh-la-la-ing as required – were definitely keen to hurry the ceremony along as quickly a possible … why waste valuable time when there’s some healthy celebratory food and drink waiting round the corner at the local restaurant.
Suffice it to say everyone was very charming (The French are either very charming or very rude – there’s nothing in between). My only faux pas was when one of the guests asked me if my wife was a meringue. And I, thinking something had been lost in translation, replied that she was watching her weight and that meringue would be the worst possible thing for her to choose. This was received a bit frostily, so I had another glass of fizz.
It was only when I returned to dear old blighty that I discovered that a Marraine is a French Godmother.
Oops.
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