It’s as if I am travelling by ferry to France and back, first alone, then with my wife. There’s a train to the quay, queuing, then embarking and disembarking from the ferry—the actual crossing over features. Needing to stay the night before or after taking the ferry, we find ourselves not in a hotel but more like a hostel, with perhaps four double beds in a ward-like, long, wide, and high dormitory. We are the only people using a bed, though when I wake up very early, I find the other beds are probably occupied.
I’m in northern France somewhere in Normandy, probably with a TV production crew. We are in the centre of a town somewhere. I’m unsure how I’ve ended up with them, but they realise I know the area and am good at talking to people, and they ask me if I’d like to do some of the interviews (they don’t have a presenter or reporter). The producer asks in France if I speak, and I say I’m fluent, spoken and comprehension, though my written French is poor and when working in French TV decades before, I’d always had a bilingual P.A.
An interviewing situation comes up. I’m invited to step up. The middle-aged woman has lots of stories and colour and enjoys talking. As we set up and I approach her, she turns into a rabbit. Determined not to be fazed by this, I made conversation with her in my basic French. She begins to talk about where she comes from. I ask when the story we’re interested in began, and she says it began when she was still studying. I then stumbled over my grammar in my efforts to ask when and where this was, when she was studying. She is hesitant and distracted by the producer, who then steps in, thinking he can help by telling her what she has to say. She then calms up, and being a rabbit, she hops off.
I tell the producer you should keep it conversational. Help them talk and say it in their own words, not put words into their mouths.
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