Hi Kafetzou
Don't worry, your secret is safe with me.
I began writing a "little" message to reply to your question and it became so long I was worried that it would never fit in a message box.
In order to shorten it to a reasonable length, I have turned it into a poem, which is often a way of painting a very global picture without having to go into all the details:
Dear Kafetzou, I’ll narrate
The story of one woman’s fate
Who left England in ’84
And to France went, for ever more.
She was only 22 years old,
When taking this decision bold
To quit her husband, country, work.
(I must admit he was a jerk)!
But speaking not a word of French,
She had to learn, this poor young wench,
To conjugate in Molière’s patter
Doth bread and wine now meet her platter.
And two years later, she was able
To spread a feast upon her table
Where bread and wine were only part
Of all she could conjure with her art
A true wordmonger she became,
Since, of her French she shed her shame.
Today, with ease, she writes, in either tongue,
Poetry, prose or lyrics to be sung.
And after 22 years thus
She modernised, without a fuss,
Swapping her fountain pen for a Mac
So as she might never lack
The space she needs for jotting down
What makes her smile, what makes her frown,
Now she seems in perfect bliss,
She’s a translator for cucumis.
My poem ends, so in all truth,
I’ll tell you that her name is Ruth,
On cucumis you must have seen
She signs her messages
"Bises
Tantine."
Bises
Tantine
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