Madame Oui

Anyways….the -prime-reason for this trip was to see Philippe Torreton in his production of Moliere’s Dom Juan. I missed his Richard 3; I missed his Du malheur d’avoir de l’esprit, so I was going to be damned if I was going to miss this one.

I had promised my son that I wouldn’t  make a scene–you know, the sort of scene where the mad groupie carries off her hero and-shut your eyes here if you are of a delicate nature-has her wicked way with him.  I have liked Philippe Torreton for a lonnng time, but I hadn’t managed to catch him LIVE until this trip. I had bought the tickets online and after a couple of fraught emails with the theatre, had been assured that I could pick the tickets up a half an hour before the performance. Now I am the sort of person who likes to plan stuff like this to the nth degree cause I am a terrible pessimist. (the sort of-if you don’t do this , then –omg-the sky will fall- kind of person). Picking up the tickets before a performance should be a simple procedure. I managed to make it into a Feydeau farce. I had done what they asked and printed out the emailed confirmation of sale. I  eargerly joined the line at the guichet which was manned by a callow youth, just out of nappies. While I waited I purloined a couple of the free carte postales which showed a copy of the play’s poster.Finally I was at the head of the queue- brandishing my email, I  asked for the tickets. He looked confused and murmured–‘Non’…he scratched his head and looked bemused.

A thought hit me right on the cranium. WhatdoeshemeannonomgomgtheskyisfallingIvecomeallthiswayandImnotgoingtoseePhilippe…!

While this was running through my head I attempted to at least appear calm and plastered the smile of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing on my face. I explained slowly and quietly that I bought the sodding things online and no-I wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He looked even more confused. I was obviously not French–the accent and the figure (I am a lady of ‘traditional shape’ as the books say) and I think that that confused the lad–that and the wild look of desperation creeping into my eyes. He scanned the email. For god’s sake–couldn’t he read?  It WAS in French after all.  He looked up…’And you are Madame–?’  ‘OUI’, I almost shouted. The look on his face would have been comical if there hadn’t been so much at stake.  ‘Madame….Oui….?….Vous etes….Madame Oui?…?’. By this time the noise which was to follow me round all week…the sound of son and friend sniggering fit to bust had grown louder behind me. I sighed ‘Non, je ne suis pas Madame Oui..’ (my god it sounded like a Bankok brothel keeper)…’Je suis Madame —–.’ I jabbed at the hotmail address, which happens to be my full Fortunately a kind soul came and rescued both of us before I had a seizure and the boy went catatonic. I was known as Madame Oui for the rest of the week. Oh, and the play was excellent by the way.


~ by entropycottage on September 27, 2007.

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