We all need a Dada

Tuesday morning and as this is Switzerland I know that the washing machine repair man will be arriving.  Not “sometime during the day” as I hear happens in the UK messing people about and making people hang around all day, but as agreed between 8 and 9.30.  Here one is à l’heure and at 8.45 the door bell rings.

“Bonjour, merci d’être venu! ” I gush barely restraining from bear hugging him.  

He follows me down to the laundry room.  I walk backwards spreading rose petals at his feet.  If you are a mother reading this you will know how chaotic the world becomes without a working washing machine.  I offer him coffee, cigars, massage.  

“Non merci, c’est déjà fait.”  (No thanks I’ve already had my coffee).

Of course he has.  He  drank his coffee and read his paper between 5.30 and 6.15am before setting off to work at 6.16am.  

Five minutes later, machine in working order after a replaced valve, he pads back up the stairs where I am the poised hand maiden should he require anything.

He glances at the floor.  “Where did you get those tiles?”

I tell him over-elaborately going into details.  I’m way overdoing it.

He wants to know because he is repairing an old farmhouse up in the mountains.

“C’est mon dada*,” he says with a glint in his eye going out the door.  “Bonne journée Madame.”

 
*dada translates as hobby-horse but as usual the translation fails.  It is more than just a hobby-horse it has more of a visceral meaning  conveyed by the speaker and when you hear it said, in that way, you hear the feeling behind the word and know exactly what is meant.