Zebra Crossings

We trundled off for an afternoon promenade dans la pousette. I was confused by all the zebra crossings, which appear with helpful regularity, yet most unhelpfully cars ignore any pedestrians and zoom through them. What’s the point of the crossing? And then, having taken the wrong street and wanting to perform an immediate street-crossing, I realized. When people say the French touch-park, they mean it. It’s impossible enough to squeeze myself through the kissing bumpers, let alone la pousette. French zebra crossings are like that school matron at 1950’s dances, making sure there’s thirty centimeters of decency between dancers.

While out on this late afternoon stroll I received a very strange phone call from Mrs. She prefaced it by saying, “What I’m about to tell you I don’t want E to know.” Her discretion was somewhat foiled by the constant and loud traffic on the street, but I managed to convince her I wouldn’t give anything away. Without, of course, actually saying that. (This entire exchange felt more like a scene from Borne Supremacy than The Nanny Diaries.) Her aunt was in the hospital in a serious condition, she might die in the next few hours. Don’t tell E anything, but we won’t be home until late. You’ll have to cook dinner and feed the children.

(I knew this would be upsetting for the family, the aunt was particularly beloved. She had been a very close part of their family life, looking after the children weekly.)