Miss Connasse-sur-la-Mer

Connasse-sur-la-mer

Yesterday morning on the train to work I sat down with Timo, Hansel and a new start, hailing from some small village in Bretagne named Loic.

“Et Guenael, ca veux dire quoi?”

“Ange blanc”

“Ah oui? Et Guenoe?”

“Ben, a mon avis, ange noir!” I joked.

La conversation a tourne vers les langues, les differences de terminologie francais dans le different pays francophones… et après ca, les nom des villes. Timo was taking the piss at me when he talked about the village of “MyAss” (“Moncu”) in France.

“Moncu?!”

“Ouais…. Tu dois faire un tour dans Moncu… c’est interessant.”

I didn’t believe him, of course.

“Oui, pis aussi faire un tour chez Connasse-sur-la-Mer” aussi?” I joked.

But thing is, there *is* a town in France called “My Ass”. I’m sure that the term itself did not really mean that when the town was built, but I’m sure that’s small comfort to the denizens there. What do you call them anyway? Assholes? Turds? Monculliers? It all sounds so scatological.

Train rides to work have rarely been this informative … or exciting. But yesterday was Thursday, and we all know what happens on a Thursday. Thursday is Curse Day, where shit goes wrong, trains are late, or worse, don’t run, tempers flair, work is manic and general mayhem leaves one cowering in the corner wishing they’d never gotten out of bed in the first place.

Last night’s train ride back from work was no exception.#

We take the 6pm train. Somewhere between Paisley and Glasgow the train stops. It's a cold cold night and the train is not heated. We wait. I'm sitting with Mari and her friend from the Italian desk. Over in the next seat is this mad woman from Montpellier and some of her friends (and mine).

As we were slowly going into a deep freeze, I call Scotrail. The rep is non-plussed at being told that the train in stuck... until I tell him how long it's been.

“Where are you… at Glasgow Central?”

“No, we are on the train itself… and it’s very cold in here!”

“How long have you been waiting?"

"I'd say over an hour."

"That long? We've only been told now. Let me look into this and get back to you. What's your number?"

We sit there freezing and Madia thinks it's a fantastic idea to treat us all to traditional euro pop from Mykonos. This does not sit well with the Milanese metalhead sitting with us. Nor does it with me.

"Can you turn it down?" we joke, "We can hardly hear ourselves.... or anyone else." Which is crucial. I want to hear what Mr. Scotrail is saying when he calls me back.

She ignores us. They get louder and more exuberant.

And it all disintergrates into a verbal stand-off. Miss Connasse isn't happy but do I give a shit?