Fiona Gibson - The Woman Who Met Her Match

Itll be good for you, Mum announced. Youll improve your French; see a whole different side of life. You dont want to be stuck in boring old Yorkshire all summer, do you?

She was applying her make-up at her dressing table mirror: two coats of spidery black mascara, frosted peach lips and a flash of apricot blusher across each cheek. She closed her small, tight mouth and swivelled round on the stool to face me. You might even meet a nice French boy. Oh, I hope so, Lorrie! Just think your first boyfriend. Thats whats meant to happen on a French exchange! She turned back to her mirror, brushing on bronzer until her face took on a shimmery metallic hue.

At sixteen years old, I knew that people only said itll be good for you when it was something you didnt want to do. And this was a prime example.

I didnt want a French boyfriend. I had never been out with anyone in Yorkshire no one had even shown any interest in kissing me and I doubted that my arrival in a foreign country would suddenly heighten my allure. I didnt even want to go to France, especially not to a strangers house. My French was pretty limited. I was fairly confident I could buy a cauliflower or report the presence of cockroaches in my hotel room but as for living in a French familys flat for an entire month? I was fully prepared for no one to understand a single word I said. Although I had tried to convince Mum that Id learn just as much by studying my textbooks at home, she wouldnt listen. Once she had made up her mind, that was that; firm arrangements were made, my terrible passport picture taken in a photo booth with my hair scraped back so I looked like a potato, and travel tickets booked. Clearly, there was no point in arguing.

There were many other reasons why the thought of going to France scared me:

I was to fly there, despite having never been on an aeroplane before. In fact, I had never been on any mode of transport where a talk on safety procedures was required.

French girls were thin and sexy and I was neither of those things.

French people kissed on both cheeks just to say hello, i.e. much potential for humiliation. It was all about sex. Everything was. Even their nouns were either masculine or feminine.

In fact, I knew from occasional glimpses of French films that everyone was always snogging the face off each other. So what would I do while all that was going on? I would take photos of churches and force myself to buy things in shops. Bonjour!Un chou-fleur sil vous plat, Madame. Merci, au revoir! I would trot back to my penpals flat with my cauliflower in a basket and sit and write postcards home.

In my own bedroom, which smelt of the tinned meat pie Mum had heated up earlier, I dropped a selection of cheap biros into my suitcase, wishing I was at least travelling with someone. However, despite Mums insistence on using the term French exchange implying a load of British kids all singing excitedly on a coach it was just me, being packed off to a strangers place, alone.

It had all started when we were allocated penpals through school and Id ended up with a terse-sounding Valrie Rousseau. Our correspondence so far had been rather basic (What is your favourite sport? Le ping pong, I lied, not actually having one). Next thing I knew, Mum was on the phone to Valries mother, wafting her cigarette and putting on her Penelope Keith voice with the odd French word flung in: Merci, Mrs Rousseau. Lorrie is trs excited to come and visit chez vous! And that was that; the trip was arranged. Well, she sounded very nice, Mum announced. Not that she speaks much English, but youll be fine .

I should also point out that my destination wasnt Paris. It wasnt even the Cte dAzur, which Id at least heard of. I was travelling alone to somewhere called The Massif Central, which sounded like an ugly office block with an enormous road system around it. For all we knew, Valries parents could have been alcoholics or child molesters but this was the eighties and no one really worried back then.

I zipped up my suitcase and studied the instructions Mum had hammered out on her manual typewriter:

1. 1. Overnight coach to London Victoria Station.
2. 2. Tube (Victoria Line, light blue, then Piccadilly Line, bit darker) to Heathrow Airport. Check which terminal on your ticketI think theres a few?
3. 3. Get on plane. If you need anything, ask an air hostess. Im sure theyre very nice.
4. 4. Arrive at Charles de Gaulle airport. Dont leave your small bag on the plane and remember to pick up your suitcase from luggage collection thing!
5. 5. Train to Gare du Nord.
6. 6. Go to jail. Go directly to jail! Do not pass go! Do not collect200!
7. 7. Not really, haha. Just change onto Metro (like tube but French) and proceed to Gare dAusterlitz.
8. 8. Train to Chteauroux. Valries Mum (Jeanne) will meet you there (you should have phoned her in Paris to say what train. Number is in your purse in case you lose these instructions. DO NOT FORGET TO PHONE!).
9. 9. Have fun!

I studied the sheet of A4 for the billionth time, prickling with annoyance at the Monopoly reference as if this were the time for jokes! and then went to find Mum. She was still in her bedroom, scooshing hairspray all over her coppery curls.

Well, Im all packed, I announced.

She beamed at me. Good girl. Exciting, isnt it?

I folded up her instructions into a neat little square. Im a bit nervous actually.

What on earth is there to be nervous about?

Just stuff.

What stuff?

Mum, I hardly speak any French!

You must do. Youre studying it at school, arent you?