Amongst the French

To my mind, ‘genre’ is one of the hardest words to say in the English language. It has only five letters, but they’re an unfortunate combination. It’s the ‘nre’ that really trips me up. Actually, I struggle with any word that’s descended from the French. Put me in a cheese shop, and ask me to ask for Brie, and I’m stumped. What to do with the ‘r’? Give it a roll, or not?

The problem is not that I can’t cope with that French ‘r’, but that I can. I’ve got a French mother, and a history of ordering Brie in French cheese shops as well as English ones, so it’s not something that I can just ignore. By the time I’ve mentally juggled with the alternatives, all spontaneity is gone and the process has become something to be got through.

So it’s not English pronunciation that’s a problem, nor French, but the very fine cusp between them. My mixed allegiances aren’t usually a problem – after all, the English Channel is a clear of sign of what’s what – and usually when I’m out and about in the streets of Lewes I’m able to keep my French ‘r’s to myself. But then Brie or some other delicacy will rear its awkward, disorientating head and send me stumbling upon that awkward cusp and into this very particular quandary.

And it looks as if my (still small) son is headed the same way. On a recent trip to France, he happened to insert a very French ‘r’ into none other than the very English exclamation ‘crumbs’. And that was after only three days amongst the French.