History has a way of never running quite true sometimes. One only has to look at the current state of America to realise that’s the way of things these days. Too many outlets, each with a different version of the truth, creates a world of distrust and fakery.
For this reason I have decided to write down the origins of the Weasel word Schnaffel-Flaps while it is still fresh in my mind. Mind you, as a sort of caveat, it should be pointed out that I have been proven slightly unreliable in the past and it was a few days ago.
How Schnaffel-Flaps came into being
We were out and about in Caen, looking for somewhere to satiate our community hunger. We were turned away from quite a few eateries and avoided quite a few student haunts before we found a predominately pink place called Casserole & Bouchons where we were welcomed with open arms.
The staff was frazzled (particularly the man), the pace was hectic but the food was, almost surprisingly, very good. What was even better was the surprise free after dinner drink that the frazzled man gave us before we left.
It was very nice (“A bit too sweet for me,” claimed Madam E) and, being Weasels of a curious bent, we tried to work out what it was. I put forward the theory that it was…but I couldn’t remember the name. I foundered a bit, flopping between various liqueurs from many incorrect countries when I accidentally said ‘peach.’ “Schnapps,” said John instantly. I agreed, repeating that it tasted a bit like Peach Schnapps.
Then, for reasons unknown (and, frankly, how they should remain), John decided to say “Schnaffel-Flaps!” As you can imagine this caused great hilarity for a fair few hours afterwards.
And so the word was born. It is a toast, it is a greeting, it is something to say when you can’t think of something more appropriate. It is a Weasel word. Take it away, Lorna…
Before finishing up with last night, I just need to tell the story of our waitress and her summation of my language skills. I was chatting to her in my best Aussie French when she suddenly said, as she walked away, “Your French is unusual.” This caused nearly as much hilarity as Schnaffel-Flaps. I’m not sure what the joke was. Clearly the waitress just mixed her English up and meant ‘perfect.’
So, fast forward to our final day in Caen…
The rest of the Weasels went down to the weekly market while I stayed with Hope and made a video of the house (it’s below) for posterity. After a successful marketing, they returned, the cars were packed and we headed off for home.
The thing is, unbeknownst to us, today was National Dithering Day in Normandy. After a lovely yet unsatisfying run on the motorways of northern France, it was decided that the last bit should be accomplished via the considerably more scenic coast road.
Then we struck an attempt to emulate the Tour de France. We managed to slalom through the stragglers but by the time we reached the peloton it was an excessive amount of very slow uphill miles with nothing but great arses of Lycra to look at.
Eventually we dumped the cyclists only to find the slowest car in France driven by a Belgian Granny without the strength to push down the accelerator pedal. We feared the return of the cyclists we were going so slow.
Then, as if to mock us in our attempt to sample some beauty, the road had a sign saying it was blocked and we should find some other way to get to Calais. Which we did. Still it was annoying.
Then, as if the preceding was considered not enough, we managed to get into the super slow queue for the tunnel train. Some guy in a white car held up everyone in our line for reasons never made clear to us. Eventually, when we did get through, I noticed his car parked up at the security office so I can only hope they were fitting the electrodes somewhere painful and memorable.
Eventually, meeting up with Lorna, Darren and the Anxious Anthea, we swapped over the precious cargo and headed up for the final stretch to the platforms. And then, to ice the cake, so’s to speak, we were left off our original train S and put first on the next train T.
Still, we returned to the UK still happy and John very obligingly dropped me at Ashford for the three hours of trains home all of which was accomplished with minimal (ie no) fuss.
It was an excellent four days. My only complaint would be that it was only four days…but then it wouldn’t have been a Short Weasel Holiday had it been any longer.
Now, the video.
Please note that the following video is over 14 minutes long. While not nearly as long as the interminable Shoah, it is considerably longer than any Youtube video I’ve embedded in my blog before. Therefore, be prepared for it to go on a bit and click off when you’ve had enough.
Without further introduction and warning, here is a (short) video of our Caen accommodation, appropriately titled Hope House.
By the way, the drink the waiter gave us was a shot of Calvados and dashes of lime, pineapple and vanilla all on a big ice cube. It was very nice!