Saturday Nite Loft

In August last year Max and I were asked to "loft sit" for a colleague. See The Other Side of the Tracks. We almost didn't but something told us to give it a go and we had a ball pretending that we lived like trendy well off people in the centre of Lille with a view of the town hall from our gorgeous terrace. Last Saturday evening, Valentine's Day, we were invited to the official housewarming and again, when the day dawned, we were in two minds as to whether we really wanted to go. Neither of us is a party animal and making conversation is difficult enough in English when you are struggling to make yourself heard, so doing the same in French with a partner who is not the most outgoing person, was going to be a challenge indeed.

We left the decision open and dealt with other pressing matters such as a discussion about having Valentine's presents sent half way round the world at additional FedEx cost and other associated topics. We had decided on a homemade housewarming present; what else do you give people whose income and lifestyle doesn't require our interpretation of the taste they should or do have? They had adored the loaf of bread Max left awaiting their return before so we repeated the gesture albeit adorned with ever essential tea-towel (Habitat) wrapped in transparent cellophane and tied with a bow. Good tea-towels, it seems, are not easy to find. Let me expand on that. Expensive tea-towels are to be found in obvious places such as the homewares floor at Printemps, where a piece of cloth bore the unlikely tag 9€! We came to the conclusion that the well to do probably do their tea-towel shopping on dedicated weekends away in Paris. We settled for a pack of three from Habitat for 12€.

Armed with baked loaf, and tea-towels at the ready, we felt almost obliged to show our faces so agreed that we didn't have to stay all evening but would make an effort. Well surprise, surprise! We actually quite enjoyed ourselves and I am only disappointed that I have no photos of the evening to share. Of course we were familiar with the layout of the accommodation, probably more so than most of the 100 or so guests. The English speaking teachers we had been promised had not materialised and so we were introduced to various others but soon found ourselves standing to one side wallflower like, clutching flutes of champagne. The party goers were probably in their forties on average though the hostess's mother, who was in charge of the excellent catering, was a magnificent and youthful 75!

It wasn't long before word of my exoticism had spread and we were comparing notes on a piece of modern art with a charming smiling man and his pleasant wife. Can't you see the elephant, he grinned? Then a man, Edric, whose parentage was half Belgian and half French who had spent much time in England and now teaches engineering at Lille university, struck up a conversation with us. When someone is as competent at another language one can only be awestruck and jealous in equal combination. My mother is a little like that, having lived in the UK for all of her adult life very few people know of her origins nor suspect that english is not her native tongue. That is apart from one or two expressions and pronunciations such as, inexplicably, the word ladder, that continue to evade her.

The music was suddenly turned up and almost instantaneously the piste de danse was filled with couples dancing joyously. But they weren't just doing the usual party jig a jig, the wedding reception shuffle nor Dad dancing: they were Ceroc-ing - of that I am totally convinced. I've never seen such rhythm and ability at any UK social gathering and was transfixed at the sight. My research tells me that the word Ceroc comes from the French "c'est rock". How very appropriate. Of course the inevitable downside was that us merer mortals were clinging to the walls at the very thought of being dragged onto the dancefloor! The fear soon dissipated as more improvised and standard wiggling took over. Good heavens! I even managed to persuade Max to dance! He of course "doesn't dance", "doesn't sing" and "doesn't cry"- all of which I adore to do. I assured him that he would look sillier just standing looking at the dancers rather than joining them. Photo courtesy of Ceroc London's gallery.

Was it really midnight already? A few people had departed but the party was still swinging though we had had the best of it and, as the fashionably late appeared with, no doubt, expensive gifts having had other engagements earlier in the evening, we gathered up our coats, thanked our hostess for a fab time, and let ourselves out into the chilly nocturnal Lille.