The last class

In my ongoing war with the French language, there was a truce in the battle with one part of my three-week intensive French course at the University of Geneva. The professor who taught the section on French sayings was not only funny, his humour made it hard to forget the lesson. Our last class was also his last class, because after 40 years of teaching he is retiring.
Not content to just walk off the stage, he wore his Swiss T-shirt, waved, the flag, had us stand for the national anthem (I’ve forgotten the words since the day I had to sing it as part of my swearing in as a Swiss citizen). Obviously frustrated by the interruption of cell phones in his class over the years, his last act was to have us all have our phones go off at the same time.
His last moment in the classroom was marked by applause and a standing ovation.
If all professors taught like he did, there would be less ignorance in the world.

And then to come home and find a lovely plant, a matching card with a photo taken by my housemate from my housemate with a congratulatory note along with a message that we weren't going to switch to French at home, even though we do use it frequently. Also appreciated was how close she matched the flowers to my duvet cover.

As for my French? The war is ongoing but I'm a few more skirmishes to the good.