Finally, I said, "I just called to tell you that I miss you."
After making me repeat it because he didn't catch it the first time (this accent problem is quite inconvenient times like these, when I don't want to repeat what I just said because saying it the first time was difficult enough), he said, "Oh that's nice! I miss you too."
I felt like such a school girl. I felt like I was a bit too old for that. That was the truth though - I missed him.
He thanked me for proof-reading his CV for him earlier on in the day. If our roles had been reversed, I probably wouldn't think of thanking him. I don't know, I could be overreacting or reading too much into things or thinking too much, but it's when he says things like that that makes me think that he's really rather sweet, to put it mildly.
He has a surprisingly good grasp of English grammar and punctuation. He punctates better than most native speakers, but obviously I don't know how different French punctuation is; but still. He's sensitive to comma usage and he knows how to use the semi-colon and the colon, things that I have noticed that many native English speakers are just rubbish at. His spoken English tends to feature weird grammar at times and his French-influenced pronunciation of certain words is super funny (e.g. "outrageous" - he said "oooohtrageous") but his written English is almost perfect. It was also really cute when I suggested a better way to phrase a sentence and he was like, "Wow, you're really good at English."
I said, "Yeah, it's the only thing I'm good at."
He replied, "Don't be so hard on yourself."
I wasn't actually; I meant it. His response was cute anyway.
He's dissed the English language a few times, calling it too functional in a cold, robotic sort of way. I told him what a belly button was when he was fascinated with mine and he scoffed at how direct and functional the phrase was. He also said that French people tend to use more adjectives in their writing while the same adjectives would be judged quite extraneous in English.
That really explains why reading Foucault and Derrida was like reading a literary piece of work and not philosophy. It was a huge contrast from reading Kant and Habermas and other German philosophers. Derrida especially wrote beautiful prose - and I read the English translation. I am so enamoured with that one article and his writing style that it's enough to make me wish that I could read the original somehow.
Fucking hell it's 2.20 a.m. and I hear music from outside. The fuck are my chav neighbours doing? I can't wait to move out of here.
(Yeah so I assume that the music is coming from the public estate and the people living there are chavs. So?)
(And yes, I am too lazy to think of a title.)