The kitchen door installation has now been completed. I replastered the frame surround this morning. In the afternoon we went to the aged FIL’s house to fetch the washing which LSS had put in the machine this morning.
I stuck my head in the kitchen door to say hello. After saying hello back, “Mouton,” the aged FIL mumbled.
My brain flicked rapidly through the dictionary section, finding the index cards for the letter M.
“Um, sorry, I don’t think this is going to help,” it told me. “According to my records, Mouton is mutton, or sheep. So why the aged FIL is saying ‘Mutton’ to you does not compute. To quote Spock, ‘It’s not logical.’ So I’m afraid you’re on your own.”
I must have looked rather blank, because the aged FIL repeated it again.
“Mouton,” he said.
I could see him thinking “Why didn’t my daughter marry a nice French bloke instead, then I wouldn’t have all this trouble.”
“Er, I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I said in French, and hurried out to the washing line where LSS had just about finished removing the dried laundry.
“Mouton is ‘mutton’, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Because that’s what your father just said to me.”
Her eyebrows shot upwards. We re-entered the kitchen and she asked him to repeat what he’d said to me. He did.
“Ah!” LSS exclaimed. “He said, ‘beau temps.’ (Nice weather) Not ‘mouton'”.