A French Short Story

Thanks for your comments on my post yesterday. As I told one commenter, I think my occasional fretting about my inner anger stems from my uncomfortable relationship with anger in general. I've always admired people who can just get mad and get over it. I'm like Woody Allen's character in the movie Manhattan: "I can't express anger. That's my problem. I internalize everything. I just grow a tumor instead."

Yesterday I laughed because I got spam e-mail from someone identified as "Psychology Degree." The subject line: "Be a psychologist in less time than you think!" I thought, "Are they sending me this because of my blog post?!"

I suspect another commenter was correct when she linked my feelings to the chaotic time of year. Things ARE a bit crazy now. It's amazing how much is involved in trying to finish a school year. Just one more week and we'll be out of there.

This weekend is going to be a bit chaotic too, I think. Dave and I have a friend visiting from Belgium, along with her daughter. They're going to be out and about on their own for much of the time, so we'll have an opportunity to do a few things on our own -- and at least we like them a lot. We've got other friends to see on Sunday, too. And today I have my French class.

Last night, prompted by my French textbook, I wrote a short paragraph about the activities of one Mme. Chance during the course of a week. (We're working on learning the past tense.) I tested it in Google Translate and it seemed to make sense, but I'm not sure the French is really entirely correct. Anyway, click the image above to enlarge, and enjoy! I was pretty proud of myself. Flaubert, Hugo, Zola -- eat your hearts out.

(Photo: Bermondsey, on May 16.)