Food glorious food. I’m surprised I haven’t dedicated a blog to this before now.

As the girl whose idea of dieting is salad followed by a mid-afternoon maxi-banana split and who once ordered Chinese at 1am ‘just because’, it’s clear to see that I am victim to an ongoing (and often  excessive) passion for food.

I jest not. According to my family, my first words as a baby were ‘more-bread-and-butter’, which admittedly were in reality perhaps pronounced more like ‘morebednbutter, although I’m sure it was clear to everyone involved as I bashed on my high chair and shook my baby-fat fists that I was not referring to a quiet lie down.

You would think I’d grow out of this kind of behaviour as time goes on. Oh no. Before friends’ birthday parties from my childhood right through to my teens, I would always be subjected to the motherly (and in retrospect necessary) ‘don’t over-eat’ speech, but I’ve always remained powerless to resist the delights of a running buffet.

Even now, the phrase ‘all-you-can-eat’ summarises my ideal date, although possibly not a first date if I ever wanted to see him again...

Anyway, as a result of my bottomless stomach, poor Mumma Dove has been continually forced to endure countless impressed (possibly to the point of mildly disgusted) remarks from a selection of stunned parents. ‘Doesn’t your daughter eat well?’ ‘Ella really does like her food doesn’t she?’ ‘She was the last one left sitting at the table- even the arrival of Choo-Choo the Clown wouldn’t prise her away from those pork pies!’

So as you can imagine, the prospect of a year in France; home of the gourmet, could only prove a recipe (clever...) for disaster. Firstly, school dinners. Forget turkey twizzlers, the French do it properly.

With a hugely-subsidised four course meal every day for just 3 euros a time, it’s a wonder every school child isn’t obese! I sampled stuffed avocado, fresh king prawns and many exotic-looking salads for starter and elaborate main courses such as rabbit (which I happily tucked into much to the teachers’ amazement).

Desserts included homemade pastries, fluffy coffee mousse and triple chocolate gateau, followed of course by a variety of cheeses and (always black) coffee. Amazing.

In fact, the cheese there was so good that I forced myself to give it up for Lent, if nothing else to stop a well-established ‘camembert-a-week’ regime and attempt to shift my steadily-growing fromage baby.

I also gave up chocolate, which turned out to be okay due to the discovery of, wait for it...speculoos. Now, you’re probably wondering what this word means. No, it isn’t French for ‘slightly broken glasses’ or ‘optician needed’. Speculoos is basically Nutella, except, and here’s the beautiful thing for all you Lent giver-uppers, it isn’t chocolate. It actually tastes like crushed biscuits, and is a wonderful accompaniment to just about everything. Crepes, strawberries, porridge, even toast (apparently!). So if ever you find yourself on a Dover-Calais booze-cruise, do grab a jar of speculoos from the nearest hypermarket, I implore you. Honestly, you won’t look back.

I’d like to apologise now if I’ve made you hungry. Sitting with a bowl of carrot and coriander soup and a couple of crackers whilst a Lindt teddy looks on from my fruit bowl (where he was strategically placed amongst the oranges and apples to invoke a sense of guilt), I’m definitely torturing myself here.

Despite many previous complaints about UHT longlife milk and a serious lack of salt and vinegar crisps, France really doesn’t (often) disappoint with its nourriture (yes, that does mean food). With so many rich flavours and choices, even Café Rouge in Canterbury can’t compare. England, eat your heart out.

Strange how defining accents are, isn’t it? We can all spot a Brummie from a Welshman, and the difference between a Cornish dairy farmer and a Lambeth Londoner is clear.

Recent cult programmes such as Made in Chelsea and Geordie Shore have crafted clear (though not always flattering) stereotypes of their respective geographical areas, and thanks to the (bizarre) success of TOWIE, everyone now knows how an Essex-gal sounds: ‘Alriiiiiight Joey, just gonna go down the salon to get me tan and vajazzle before the party toniiiiiight’. It’s not a direct quote, but it should (and could) be.

But mention a Kentish accent, and most people are stumped. Of course, those of us who live in the Garden know our Shepways from our Bearsteads and our Chavvvams from our Canterburys without a problem. We know all the stigmas and stereotypes, and can flawlessly impersonate a typical Maidstone ‘youth’ going ‘daaawnnn liquid tonight bruv’.

Some of us are even mildly sad that the initially excitement-inducing Facebook group entitled ‘The Only Way Is Kent’ has sadly faded into the distance and perhaps will be only ever considered now by Maidstone Studios when the free tickets to the Trisha show have all run out (if the programme even exists...). However, all this takes place inside our little Kentish bubble; a bubble which, let’s face it, is probably made out of fermenting beer in a countryside oast house.

You will understand, then, my utter surprise when a French boy in Le Havre at a weekly languages café I attend recently asked me to take part in his university study on the Kentish accent. ‘Uhhh yes’, he assured me when I enquired if it was really Kent he wanted to analyse, ‘Eeeet is Kent, becauzzz zeere izzz a lot of differences in zee accent’.

Now, I’m not sure what your opinion on this is, but I personally don’t see a massive scope of variety, particularly when Kent is compared with say, the diversity of London. However, Pierre (we’ll call him that) was adamant, and so, reluctantly, I agreed to his proposition.

The following week, I returned to the café, only to be greeted not only by Pierre, but also by his project buddy Marie (definitely not her real name), and a dictaphone. My first task was to read out a poem ‘azzz naturally azzz posseeeeeble’.

Believe me, this was no mean feat with a microphone in your face and an eager roomful of English-loving Frenchies all listening intently to my every word, but somehow I managed a slightly stuttering recitation.

Afterwards, Marie played me a recording of an English lady (apparently a teacher in a Kentish grammar school- not sure which one, though I know it wasn’t MGGS) reading the same piece aloud, and I had a quiz to fill out.

Questions included ‘how educated do you think the woman is?’, ‘can you tell she teaches at grammar school?’ (Ooo, controversial...) and even ‘what type of house do you think she lives in?’ to which I answered ‘big, detached and modern’, in case you were wondering.

Yet the main thing that struck me about this recording was the fact I wouldn’t have been able to recognise the voice as Kentish. As far as I was concerned, this woman could have come from anywhere in the South of England- hence my surprise at Pierre’s choice of university study!

Anyway. The next activity was a vocabulary recognition test, for which an enthusiastic Pierre whipped out his textbook with a grin, which soon faded as it quickly became evident that French academics do not know anything about Kentish accents.

In the South East for instance, we do not say ‘sooooon’ instead of ‘sun’, nor ‘Rome’ instead of ‘gypsy’...well, as far as I’m aware anyway! I must admit, I did feel a little guilty being the bearer of such bad news, because essentially, I unwittingly proved the entire project to be void.

Moreover, I made poor old Pierre and Marie begin to doubt the previously-accepted omniscience of their assigned course resources, and they left the café with their once-wagging tails between their dejected French legs.

Still, it was a lesson learnt by all, and now that I’m back in England, I’ll definitely pay more attention to the diversity of complexity of the Kentish accents which surround me. But for now, jus’ gonna go daaaawn taaawn mate. Gotta nail and hair sesh booked innit. Laterzzzz!

As The Apprentice has once again returned, I felt a relevantly linked blog title was in order. I’m sure we all remember Susan Ma and her utterance of this legendary if not ridiculous phrase (if you don’t, I’d advise you to YouTube it; heck why not even join the Facebook group while you’re there).

As for the connection between said statement and the content of today’s entry? Well. It was basically all a meticulously prepared ploy so that I can blab about the cuteness of French babies.

Despite my various child-related jobs, I wouldn’t say I’m necessarily the most broody person around. Don’t get me wrong, I love kiddies, but after three years working as a Soft Play Assistant (official title) in Larkfield Leisure Centre’s indoor play area ‘Larkabout’, the ecstatic high-pitched whoops of a little one at play do begin to take their toll.

No matter how cute the child, parent-toddler birthday screaming matches are never fun for anyone, not least the long-suffering party host (aka yours truly) desperately attempting to plaster on an enthusiastic smile as she hands out High School Musical party bags, resolves over-excited bladder incidents and stops would-be rebels (often Dads) from climbing up the slide.

However, now I’m in France, these experiences have all been forgotten for the time being, and the combined stress of teen romance, and ‘cool’ English swearing/songs (‘I’m sexy and I know it’) has served to hugely up the appeal of the primary age, where the most heinous crime would be a pulling of hair or the hiding of someone’s pencil case.

Over the past six months, I really have developed a love of lil’ Frenchies. Okay, so there is always the slight grumble that a two year old speaks better French than me and is likely to do a better job asking for bread in a bakery...but push past this minor obstacle and they really are rather loveable.

Last week on the bus for instance, I witnessed the adorable scene of a mother trying to teach her baby son the correct pronunciation of ‘bus’ (which in French is something like ‘boo-s’). Although the first syllable was managed each time with ease, there was always a slight pause of about ten seconds until the little boy then followed on with ‘sssss’, poking his tongue between his gummy lips and smiling in such a sweet manner that almost every other passenger visibly ‘awww’d’.

A similar situation occurred on a train to Paris recently, when a rosy little girl of no more than three spent the entire journey proclaiming ‘au revoir’, and waving at people with chubby fists. Now, I’m pretty sure my first reaction would be one of offence and annoyance if on the way to Maidstone some tracksuit-clad (because all Maidstone babies are, of course) kid decided to constantly shout ‘BYE’ at me, but somehow the French language makes it seem that much cuter.

So you see, in some ways, being foreign in France does have its benefits. I love it when a child of any age whispers ‘elle est anglaise’ (she is English) to a shushing parental figure as if I’m some form of rare species, and my students’ echoing corridor cries of ‘ALLO ELLA’ often make me feel I’ve achieved automatic celebrity status simply by having a different nationality.

Unfortunately, the dream is almost over. In just over two weeks time (how time has flown!), I will be returning to the Kentish homelands, where there will certainly be no more autograph-seeking style shouts as I walk down the street.

Far from an intriguingly exotic creature, I am more likely to be viewed over summer as That Girl Who Works In Larkabout Innit (and what a wonderful title to hold); perhaps a little quirky but generally a normal human being, and most importantly: Plain Old English. And you know what? I can’t wait.

Let’s face it; Sundays in Kent are a treat. Pub roast dinners, country walks... heck, maybe even a Bluewater trip.

You could head to Thorpe Park, visit the gym or feed goats at the Hop Farm Country Park. From Morrisons to Diggerland, the county is alive.

France, on the other hand, could not be more different. Stroll through the streets of Le Havre on the sabbath and you’d be lucky to see a French pigeon.

On my first Sunday afternoon outing, I was half-expecting tumble-weed. Run out of tinned veg and you’re done for. Try to find a restaurant to resolve said food issue and you’ll almost certainly fail. Attempt to catch a bus home and you’ll inevitably be waiting at least an hour; stomping your feet in the chilly sea mist whilst reminiscing the good ole’ days of school journeys with Arriva.

Okay, so it’s not necessarily THAT black and white. The Metro still runs in Paris, as do the buses in Le Havre, albeit to a (somewhat unreliable) one or two an hour timetable.

Sundays are also market days in a lot of villages, so if you should be so lucky as to find a train running out of the city, there are many delightful stalls to discover. Normandy cider, fresh fruit and veg, delicious roast chickens cooked in front of your eyes, giant vats of couscous and paella... I could go on.

With reference to my previous blog entry, these markets are yet another hotspot for French fashion, and if you want to pick up a PVC parka or baby pink hoody with a sequined gold monkey across the front of it, you’ll be spoilt for choice.

In fact, it was in the Parisian market at Porte de Clingnancourt where my friends and I discovered the classic slogan t-shirt ‘there are two types of people in the world. Algerians, and those who want to be’.

Last week in the quaint village of Harfleur, there were even animals for sale in the market; a regular occurrence for the country that thinks eating rabbit is perfectly socially acceptable (and for the record, it IS tasty...).

Hens, pheasants, baby rabbits and guinea pigs were all displayed for passers-by to see, and even a cage of pigeons!

Not quite Pets at Home, but the livestock certainly generated a lot of interest, especially when one little bunny hopped out of his box and on top of the cockerel cage. It was all I could do not to snatch him up and run there and then!

With all this buzz and hubbub, you would think the French had by now cottoned onto the fact that a weekly market is a good, nay the best, opportunity for local shops and cafés to gain that extra bit of business. Think again.

In Harfleur for instance, only a tiny smattering of bakeries remain open, and only one small supermarket has had the brains to extend its hours.

Of course, after scouring the stalls for hours on end, the people who have not gorged on paella and samosas become hungry. Those who are local return to their homes. The tourists, on the other hand, are forced to roam the cobbled streets clutching their grumbling bellies and moaning about the time difference until they eventually mosey their way over to the nearest Ibis hotel or McDonalds, practically begging for sustenance.

They then leave the town with six chicken nuggets, a happy meal toy and, most probably, a stress-induced stomach ache. Oh, and a couple of bargain underwear sets... maybe now is not necessarily the best time to admit I own a pair of ‘girl boxers’ stencilled with the phrase ‘propriété privée’...

Anyway, after a not-so-hearty meal, said tourists then power-walk to the station, new fake leather bags jangling with enthusiasm for hotel rooms and Duty Free. They reach the platform, take a deep breath, look at the time....

.....and settle down for three hours.

After two blissful weeks back on home soil with family, friends and a roast duck, I once again find myself in Frogland (no offence intended there...), ready to face the final straight of my year abroad as an English language assistant.

I have to admit, being in England was a welcome relief. Before this year began, I definitely took for granted just how amazing the feeling is of being entirely understood by those around you.

From an intense family debate over a board game, to the effortless ordering of takeaway, to just walking down the street and comprehending snippets of conversation, there really is nothing more satisfying than successful communication.

However, I’m not sure this is something the people of Maidstone necessarily realised last week, as my relentless grins and chummy stares drew more than one fearful look as I strolled gaily down Fremlin Walk swinging my giant Primark (Primarni) bag and trying not to engage everyone I passed in ecstatic English babble. I may aswell have been belting ‘Rule Britannia!’

Anyway, with the help of large mouthfuls of a Boots meal deal duck wrap, I somehow resisted the very real temptation of hollering ‘HELLO EVERYONE I AM ENGLISH’ at passers-by, and my shopping experiences went largely without a hitch.

My bank balance, on the other hand, was not so lucky. Due to the incredibly poor variety of stores in Le Havre, I had not managed a full clothes splurge for weeks, and as a result went slightly retail-crazy, or as the wise Mumma Dove would say, O.T.T.

Of course, moving between France and England will always illuminate cultural differences, yet fashion was not one I really considered before my arrival. I’ve already mentioned the unofficial dress-codes of my two schools, what we English could sum up as Chav vs Rah (by ‘rah’, I of course mean Jack Wills and gilets; or the ‘I’ve-just-got-off-a-horse’ look, I’m sure you know what I mean...), but as for the rest of Le Havre, now that is a whole different can of worms just waiting to be flung open.

I think ‘trendy’ outlet ‘The New Yorker’ summed it up with their seasonal t-shirt which loudly stated: ‘I kiss kiss kiss my boyfriend on valentine’’....I know. Just, why.

Apart from the misplaced apostrophe, my main observation here is the incessant love of such ridiculous (and often nonsensical) slogans, all the better if they’re written in English, as of course in a Frenchy’s eyes that makes them ten times more chic.

Equally guilty is women’s clothes shop C&A (not to be confused, as I often do, with C&H Fabric, Maidstone), whose window currently displays two mannequins with red and white striped jumpers, each sporting the glittery gold logos ‘Funny’ and ‘Cool’.

More than once, I’ve contemplated buying the latter of these, more than anything purely to prove that I am also the former, however I’m not sure the French would necessarily pick up on this subtle dose of irony. In fact, they are probably more likely to compliment me on my à la mode garment choice.

I loved the recent moment when one of my students hesitantly asked me if I could explain what the words on her top meant. Tempting as it was to say ‘I’m trying too hard to be cool’, I helped the poor mite out, and in fact the direct translation was something like ‘Teenage Princess’ or words to that effect.

It could have been a lot worse, but I can’t help but wonder exactly what brings a French person to buy a t-shirt emblazoned with a huge sequined motto that they don’t understand. Luckily for them, the ever popular Maidstone slogan ‘if you think I’m a bitch you should meet my mother’ has yet to cross the Channel.

However, if you do fancy cottoning onto this overseas ‘trend’, my advice is to take a peek into Maidstone’s Internaçionale or even First Avenue (if you dare) stores. A similar range of t-shirts will most definitely be available, and all you need to do is pick up your nearest ‘j’adore Paris’ tee and combine it with a trackie and beret for the latest Parisian Chic. Voila.

‘Sorry I can’t come out tonight, I’ve got school at 8am tomorrow’ sounds like a rather strange response for a 20-year-old university student.

Yet this is my usual answer these days when turning down social gatherings, a reply which does in some ways feel like a regressive step in my journey towards ‘maturity’ (cough cough).

Whose bright idea was 8am classes in France anyway? The teachers themselves show significant reluctance in being there as they huff, tut and down large cups of black coffee in the dimly lit staff room, and more often than not I find myself with at least three students who decide that these early lessons are a good lie-in opportunity.

As a result, the back row is unofficially labelled as a form of ‘sleep zone’, where grunting, tracksuit-clad lads and girls with smudged mascara slump against the wall with hoods pulled over their faces or flop onto the desk with a textbook propped in front of them in an attempt to avoid detection.

I’ve got to admit; I usually leave them to it. After my first few weeks of desperate cajoling were met simply with blank faces and exaggerated yawns, I soon realised it was much easier to let them be than enforce their concentration.

Futile arguments with an attitude-fuelled 14-year-old at 8am on a Wednesday morning? I’d rather not, thanks.

It is moments like this that really highlight the differences between French and English schooling. When I first arrived here, my initial perception of the French education system was that rules would be 10 times stricter and more formal than my own experiences.

I think the previous example provides adequate proof of just how wrong I was. For a start, the teachers wear jeans. This may not seem a big thing in itself, but couple that with the lack of school uniform and seeming non-existence of any dress-code rules (apart from ‘no religious slogan t-shirts’ - the French schools all being completely secular), and a whole different atmosphere is immediately created.

Now, I work at two schools. One of them is in what I can only describe as a ‘Desperate Housewives’ area, whilst the other is in a district made up of blocks of flats and 2am mopeds.

The fashions of each are fascinating to me; shirts and high heels versus full-on Adidas with matching slanted caps and trainers for both the boys and the girls.

Yet in both schools, discipline is often questionable. Many teachers simply cannot control their classes, meaning every lesson becomes a game of ‘who can shout the loudest’. If the staff member in question is a mouse, they have absolutely no chance.

Luckily, I’ve derived a clever strategy for commanding silence, whereby I simply speak as quickly in English as I can, forcing even the most cocky ones to realise that actually, they are not quite as ‘trop forte’ (too good) at English as they think....works like a charm.

Even in what I’ve taken to referring to as the ‘posh school’, there are problems. The majority of students there definitely have an air of ‘Mummy and Daddy will do whatever I ask’ about them, so their issue is not so much talkativeness as a blatant refusal to listen if they happen to decide that they don’t want to.

However, this attitude (and indeed that of the other school) has yielded some incredibly amusing moments; moments which, had I been their usual class teacher, I probably would not have found half as funny.

For instance, one 14-year-old has taken rather a shine to me (no doubt just because I’m the youngest staff member and a female), and after countless attempts at discovering my phone number/address/if I had Skype, moved onto a different wooing tactic by proclaiming in the middle of his class; teacher present, that my eyes ‘sparkled like the sun’ and later, when asked about his hobbies, that he liked to ‘make the love’ (though he actually used a much ruder French equivalent).

If this had happened back in good ol’ Maidstone, I’m sure there would have been serious repercussions not to mention a significant amount of paperwork and letters to parents, but no, not in France. Instead, the teacher simply laughed, and went back to her marking. Crazy.

I have many, many more anecdotes and language faux-pas like this which I will proceed to share with you over the coming weeks, but for now, I think I’ll leave you with this. À la prochain!

I’ve often wondered why, during a family meal, my mum will often instruct us to keep the same cutlery for the starter and main, saying ‘its French style today’.

The usual response she receives runs along the lines of ‘French style? Really? Do they ACTUALLY do that?!’, and no doubt the majority of our dinner guests assume such a declaration to be a clever avoidance tactic of extra washing up.

Even I, the token Dove family French student, have never been entirely convinced by this technique. Surely a sneaky napkin wipe or casual lick of fois-gras remnants from an all-purpose knife would be discouraged by the perfectionist country known worldwide to be the home of fine dining and haute-cuisine? 

Have us Brits not learnt anything about French restaurant etiquette from the Python boys’ ‘Dirty Fork’ sketch?

Well, after using the same cutlery set last week for vegetable quiche, duck à l’orange, spreading brie onto pieces of baguette and apple tart with whipped cream, I was forced to (literally) eat my words.

Whether a one-time faux-pas of the school chef or the entire kitchen staff’s devilish plot to play a game of ‘Educate The Anglophone’ I cannot say, but there we were, teachers and pupils alike, unwittingly mixing courses and flavours as gaily as can be. That old joke about the rabbit ‘mixing-his-toasties’ springs to mind. Anyway, the moral of the story: mums are always right.

At home in Kent, my family Christmas (and indeed any other special occasion) invariably consists of hypermarket-bought French nibbles.

In the past, fresh pizzas, snails in garlic, and Coquilles-st-Jacques have all made their way across the border, ready to grace dinner parties with their exotic presence.

Of course, that’s not to mention the boot-fuls of French wine, the production dates of which my Uncle always writes down in his little black book, and the vast assortment of cheeses with debatably-pronounced names which collectively produce a not-so-exotic aroma after two hours out of the fridge. Luxury.

I have some fond memories of these Dover to Calais trips; memories which perhaps the other Eurotunnel passengers at the time would not necessarily share.

A prominent moment which will always stay in my mind is the occasion we were caught red-handed by a customs officer leaning against the car munching on two baguettes and a selection of incredibly runny cheeses whilst waiting for our train to begin boarding.

Looking back, it probably wasn’t the brightest idea as we were at the very front of the queue, meaning that as soon as the first vehicles were directed to load onto the Shuttle, an extremely panicked not to mention messy scene ensued, involving a whole host of bread-cramming and excessive yelling on my mother’s part not to get crumbs on the seats of her (relatively) new car.I honestly have never (and possibly never will again) shoved that much brie into my pockets.

One thing is for sure; the glitz of French cuisine is certainly not quite so glamorous after four months of living here. Of course, it’s all still delicious, but the people themselves are definitely not as well-mannered as they like to appear.

At one of my schools for instance, soup has been served up twice now as a starter and on both occasions I was made to look incredibly posh just for picking up a spoon. Well, how else do you eat soup? I hear you ask. My point exactly.

You can imagine my shock when a roomful of usually-sophisticated teachers almost in unison lifted their bowls to their lips and began to sip. I say ‘sip’, when actually a far more appropriate expression would be ‘slurp’, or perhaps ‘see-how-much-noise-you-can-make-with-carrot-and-coriander’. I did get a second helping of tiramasu that day though, so it wasn’t all bad. Turns out firing the odd ‘bonjour’ at the school chef is always a good plan.

As a self-confessed ‘foody’, in many ways I am loving life here. Croissants and pain-au-chocolats every day for breakfast, ridiculously good value ‘Menu de jours' such as three hearty courses for just eleven euros, and supermarket ready meals which are actually healthy and non-artificial (today I ate a microwave paella complete with prawns, squid and mussels!).

I’ve even been to several ‘proper French’ dinner parties, details of which will be recounted to you shortly, yet there are aspects of English cuisine that France simply cannot replicate. Battered cod and mushy peas from the chippy for instance, a greasy Chinese takeaway and not forgetting a classic home-cooked roast dinner (hi again Mumma).

Can you tell I’m excited for half-term?

**  ABOVE: The French getting creative with their fast food.....yes, I have tried them both. And yes, bitterly disappointing. The bun wasn't even black!

Kent. Known to all us country bumpkins as the Garden of England; a land of beauty and beer, of hops, oasts, Dickens and Darwin. I am a born and bred Kentish girl, away at University yet regularly returning to my roots in Ditton, a small village near Maidstone, for family strolls along the Downs, a couple of Shepherd Neame’s and a trip to the ‘The Sugar Boy’ in Deal for a handful of sherbet pips.

                Imagine then, the shock to the system that was my move to Normandy, France. I know what you’re thinking. Normandy..... a vast array of sandy beaches, stunning green landscapes and enough Camembert to shake several thousand baguettes at. If this is your current mental image, clearly you haven’t been to Le Havre. Completely destroyed during WW2, it is a town which to all intents and purposes seems not to have recovered all these years later. One look at the dull grey concrete of the ‘hôtel de ville’ (actual translation: town hall- no doubt a source of constant confusion amongst English tourists in search of local accommodation) tells all you need to know. Le Havre is not beautiful, but, as you’d say when trying to defend an ugly child, it has ‘character’. In the past four months, I’ve slowly learnt to love the tramway roadworks (the latest attempt to make the town appear ‘concrete chic’), the changing of bus routes and the constant drizzle which in fact makes me feel rather at home. And there is cheese too, to be fair.

                  But why am I here? I hear you ask. What on earth is a twenty-year old doing on the other side of the pond for longer than a daytrip booze cruise? And somewhere that isn’t Calais? Mental. Well, dear readers, I shall explain. As part of my French and English University course, my third year is spent abroad as a language assistant in two secondary schools, where I am currently attempting to teach English by cajoling a bunch of sulky French teens into copious amounts of over the top role-play and renditions of ‘Heads Shoulders Knees and Toes’. My Kentish family love my new life. For them, it means no more agonising ferry or Eurostar delays, a lifetime supply of Bic biros, and a form of ‘meals-on-wheels’ service when purchasing the more exotic Christmas nibbles and wine. Not to mention the opportunity to dust off their pocket phrasebooks and boast that yes, yes, they are spending the half term holiday with their multicultural daughter in France, sipping Sauvignon Blanc, nibbling at crepes and possibly also taking a quick soujourn to Paris en-route, darrrrling.

                  Of course, one of the first questions every French person asks me is whereabouts exactly I’m from. I’ve had some interesting suggestions by both students and teachers alike, from New York to Scotland. Rather bizarrely, they also all know of Brighton...clearly all avid fans of Gay Pride and sticks of rock. Yet the word ‘Kent’ unfailingly yields a roomful of confused blank faces. ‘London?’ I’ve often been asked hesitantly. ‘Yes, yes, London’, I reply. It’s generally easier, and avoids the inevitable next question of ‘what’s a county?’ You try explaining that to a bunch of narrow-minded frenchies who only work in ‘Academies’ and ‘Departments’. Impossible. However, when I first arrived, I did give it a go a few times. Turns out, ‘le jardin d’Angleterre’ (The Garden of England) doesn’t work as a literal translation. In fact, by saying this all I’d managed to conjure up was an image of me livin’ it up al-fresco style, skipping slow-motion through a massive garden of daisies, sheep and gnomes, and no doubt by night curling up in a hollow tree with a squirrel-tail pillow and lullabies sung by a choir of impossibly wide-eyed rabbits and hedgehogs, most likely all cartoons.

           Well...why not let them dream.