Où est la piscine?

So, funny thing happened the other day.

I wrapped up at work and set off from the office, as usual, on my bike. It was a bit nippy, so I had my hat and scarf on. I streamed peacefully down the bike lane, enjoying the evening air until I arrived at the bakery that I pass each day, halfway between work and home. I stopped in and grabbed some bread to go with what I was making for dinner. I was thinking some nice, simple, toasted white bread would be perfect.

And so out I walked with a nice baguette, tossed it in the basket of my bike, and continued on my way home.

It took me about 25 seconds to realise what I was doing. I was jauntily riding a red city bike down a dedicated cycle lane paid for by highly-taxed Europeans, wearing a beret and carrying a baguette in a paper bag. For about 10 minutes, I was Bret and Jemaine in Foux de Fa Fa.

(I would be so freaking obnoxious in a French supermarket.)

I would make the following minor tweaks to this scene to make it just perfect:

1. I would be able to speak French
2. I would have dress sense
3. My scarf would be streaming out horizontally behind me in my jetstream
4. I would be a smoker. Actually, I’ll leave that one be.