LORRAINE MACE | Learning language of tennis court

I have recently signed up for a French language refresher course because I'm going to need all the linguistic help I can get. My French is not too bad. I have discussed the intricacies of the human body with the medical profession, cut through swaths of red tape in government departments: even arguing about our tax bill over the phone didn't faze me.

So what is it I'm intending to do that is so demanding it brings me out in a cold sweat? Run for political office? Take part in a televised debate? No, it's something much more daunting than either of those.

I want to join the local tennis club.

The last time I faced this particular challenge, shortly after moving to France, I went in totally unprepared.

I'd thought my French was OK, good enough to get by, but how wrong I had been. Chatting over the fence to my neighbour about the weather, the government, wine, cheese and other such topics had given me a false sense of my abilities.

I had applied to join the club, tried out for the team, and had been delighted when I was picked for a match in the week. "Bring along a plate of cold meat," the captain said. "We get together for lunch in the clubhouse after the match and each contribute something."

Thinking it would be a great opportunity to make new friends, I couldn't wait for the day to arrive. The match passed off without too many linguistic demands. After all, it's easy enough to say quinze, trente, quarante, égalité, avantage and jeu.

I hadn't had chance to chat to the other team members because we were all intent on trying to win our matches. So, when we met up in the clubhouse afterwards, amid much kissing and ça va-ing, I was properly introduced. And that's when my nightmare began.

We sat around a table and there was a brief, very brief, silence before the conversations began. Please note the plural: conversations, as in five French ladies indulging in at least half a dozen conversations simultaneously. They jumped in and out of each other's discussions without pause. Snippets of sentences whizzed over my head as my mouth opened and closed, but not a sound emerged because, before I could speak, the topic switched yet again.

Eventually, one of the team realised my plight and took pity on me. "Arrête!" she yelled and the entire table fell silent. "Lorraine has something to say."

As all eyes rested on me, my brain turned to mush and I couldn't think of a single word in French, but I did carry out a wonderful impression of a stranded fish. They gave me a few seconds of sympathetic silence before normal service was resumed and I was able to sink into silent obscurity.

Which is why, before I join the new club, I'm brushing up my French. I may have lost that conversational set six-love, but I'll be better prepared for the next match.