The British Aisles

For some reason, unbeknownst to myself, I exude an air of un-Frenchness. Whether it's my borderline anaemic paleness, my incessant need to take photos of literally everything, or that during exchanges with actual French people, my response is usually "Pardon?", I just cannot figure it out. I don't know why it's so obvious to the population of Strasbourg that I am not French, but apparently it is. I don't know whether there's secret DO NOT BE CONFUSED: SHE ISN'T FRENCH posters with my face plastered on them floating around the city, or if the old ladies of the WI (is there one here?) have all tutted at the fact that I'm skipping about with my camera taking photos of street signs that read Rue Leicester? Either way, I have been easily identified as an étrangère on more than one occasion.Well, I couldn't until today.
I'll set the scene.
E. Leclerc, the French mega-chain, seller of everything from milk to mugs, a French Tesco, you could say. Midday, and Gina and I were wandering through the aisles, picking up the odd bar of Milka, and pasta shapes when suddenly...THE BRITISH AISLE. For those of you who may not know, I am not a fan of coffee, in fact, unless it's teeming with caramel syrup, steamed milk and calls itself a Starbucks macchiato, I'm just not going to go for it. Instead, I pick tea, time and time again, as lowbrow as it may be. The French are not particularly well known for their love of a cup of char and a wad, so for the past fortnight, it would be fair to say that I've been displaying withdrawal symptoms from my English Breakfast brew. But this is the past. Faced with an aisle of Great British goodness, it took all the strength in my body not to collapse onto the display of Marmite and weep with joy. Baked beans, brown sauce and Sun Pat all welcomed me home for a good few minutes, their metaphorical cheers of "We missed you, Hope!" ringing in my ears! But where was it? Feverishly scavenging, I scanned the shelves for tea. AND THERE IT WAS. In its shiny red packaged glory. Twinings. I could almost taste it as I grabbed the box, overcome with a joy that I could only imagine is matched by a wedding or the birth of a baby, but I'm not totally convinced, this was pretty special. Chattering loudly about the love I have for tea and even taking photos to send to my mum, I'm sure there was the odd French tut at the girl so overwhelmingly excited by finding teabags that she was one step away from bulk-buying, but this was my moment. My "Lion King Circle of Life" moment. Thankfully, I didn't cry, but as somewhat of a tea addict and hot beverage connoisseur, this was a defining moment in my life as an adult in France. I feel that in hindsight, it was in fact this one moment that had outed me as a foreigner to the other shoppers of E. Leclerc, as it's a bit of a give away to stand gleaming at the checkout with my English Breakfast and my milk - fresh this time, not in a tube, more later - that I am a bit of a tourist. Nestling into my tiny French abode, I realised something wasn't sitting right. No, it's not the sugar, I have plenty. And it's not my viewing material, that's fine...what is it? A dark, looming sensation overwhelms me as the dread is realised...BOURBONS. I have no bourbon biscuits. And just like that, here we go again...