Lost in Translation
There are some things I will never get used to in France.
The husband, practising his english, translated this tidbit from the newspaper today: "A hunter killed a mushroom picker. He was a truck driver and he took a vacation to kill boars. Instead he got a woman. She got a bullet in the abdomen. He just heard a noise in a bush. She suddenly died."
This reminds of the time we were in the middle of a corn maze and all of us had to keep silent because we were recording ambient sound for a film when suddenly two little brown sausage dogs came upon us and starting barking, followed by sound of shots nearby. Sixteen people, who had been keeping stock still, suddenly broke out into angry yelling replete with luscious expletives. I tried to be amused when the sound guy said that usually by this point the hunters are very drunk and can’t shoot straight, but was more comforted by walking around with a orange emergency cone on my head.
Okay, brief catch up period for Nardac. I lost my job. Got fired. I wrote a letter to boss. Got offered my job back. Didn’t take it. Too embarrassed to return. Started finishing script. Can’t come up with an ending. Help me if you can. Merci.
You look pretty normal when drunk. I look way worse than that, like I’m possessed by alcoholic pixies.
The Writer said