Notre Damn; école privée

Of all the primary schools I've dived in and out of in my time, confidently equipped with every shade of paint under the sun, I hadn't ever contemplated how different it'd be entering into a tiny village school - in France. How could I have forgotten, that of course I wouldn't be able to indulge in my usual kiddie excitable banter that I love so much to entertain within informal workshop settings. The impossible had happened, I was tongue tied. All these gorgeous little kids leaping out of their tiny classrooms out in the white winter light, to clasp at the nearest brush + slam it haphazardly into their favourite pigmented pot and there was so little I could say to them.

"Ohhhhhhh, c'est beau!",

"mmmmmmm, d'accord!",

"Um, comment tu t'apelle?"

But they were an easy linguistic audience I was relieved to discover, even though they must've comprehended that I sounded very weird, they still continued to marvel along in high speed French, and I nodded and smiled and made sporadic yes, I understand sounds to accompany their enthusiastic banter. Then the next group of kids would plonk themselves down to paint and I would undergo the same game of deception all over again. At least I can say that I am now much better versed on colours, en Francaise, of course.