Sarah Geraghty

February 2011, 8.50am: I’m trudging towards work at the French embassy in the exclusive D4 enclave of Ailesbury Road, reciting a litany of Hail Marys: “Please help me to understand what they’re saying today.” Then I curse my parents for not being bilingual Franco-Irish.

I’m from Kildare. I got a B1 in Leaving Cert French. How did I end up dans cette situation très stressante? In short, the très formidable Madame Emmanuelle d’Achon took a chance on me. Since landing as French ambassador in 2010, her mission had been to extend the embassy’s reach beyond Dublin. The only way to get a real feel for the country was to employ “local staff”, as we’re known.

Well, who else could explain why “I’m grand” does not mean “I’m big”; that Irish people will use “the bathroom” during a meal and not see it as the height of ignorance; that an invitation for 8pm will be interpreted as meaning half eight; that Irish couples loathe being separated at table; that we don’t do manifs (street protests) here because we have Joe Duffy.

Fair enough. But you do have to be able to speak French to communicate information that is both très utile et très importante. And here I was, a boomie grad, after a year working in America for free, with no salary expectations except that one would be nice, presenting myself as a candidate. After a five-round interview process, in which I had to outline an itinerary for an official visit to Limerick and managed to demonstrate that a summer in the city of Tours had helped with the accent, they took a flyer and hired me. And I became public relations officer, aka chargée des relations publiques.

The Alliance Française Dublin became a second home – four nights a week at one stage. What I hadn’t bargained on was that, like it or not (and I didn’t), I would learn by immersion. About four months in, I realised I wasn’t praying on the commute to work. That’s when it dawned on me I was able to talk back and have phone conversations (the big test). I learned the French for things like paperclip (un trombone) and what to say when someone sneezes (à tes souhaits). I learned there’s no mystery as to why French women don’t get fat. Really. It’s as simple as no snacking; fizzy drinks, crisps and milk in tea/coffee are pas bon; and – boringly – bread, croissants, butter-based sauces and wine are grand in moderation. More than that, while we bow before the French as superior beings for their style, culture, language and general coolness in the art of living – and let’s admit it, we are a bit intimidated by them, I’ve learned they admire us for our openness and warmth, for the way our politicians are down with the grass roots and for the positive nurturing of children in our school system.

At the same time, a few myths about embassy life were busted. The “grandest detached house in Dublin”, the ambassador’s residence at 53 Ailesbury Road, is not the same as the embassy offices, which are across the road. Ferrero Rocher are not served at embassy receptions. Diplomatic immunity, sadly, would not apply if I murdered someone. And we don’t have 2½-hour lunches.

Meanwhile, that imaginary itinerary to Limerick took flesh when St Brigid's National School in Limerick city invited the ambassador to visit. We arrived to find dozens of shiny-eyed children waving tiny, hand-made French flags to La Marseillaise and a proper concert. Later, memories were made all over the country, from Aclare in south Sligo to Donegal's Glenties to Listowel in Co Kerry.

Tonight there will be offerings of des œufs à Sainte Claire (French equivalent of our Child of Prague) in supplication for le beau temps tomorrow for the La Fête Nationale – what they call Le Quatorze Juillet and we call Bastille Day (to their puzzlement).

It’s three Bastille Days ago since those Hail Marys on Ailesbury Road. On Monday, when the focus turns on La Rentrée (back-to-school time in September), and with it the routine embassy reshuffle and the transfer back to France or elsewhere of personnel who have become chers amis.

I regard it as a great Irish triumph that one of them has taken to milky tea for breakfast. And her baggage will contain a supply of Barry's tea and porridge. Youpi! (as they'd say themselves).

Róisín Ingle is away