“Them language colleges nowadays make such a fuss about tuition by native speakers,” he says as we drive past one such establishment on the way to cricket. “I taught French in school for forty years and I’m as Yorkshire as t’pud.”
“How did you manage with the accent?” I reply.
“Summer holidays in France, laddie. I know all about accents. Better than the French.”
“Right, Grandad.”
“Café owners were t’worst. Like English greengrocers and apostrophes.” He holds up a red biro. “Aye. I used to write graves and acutes on t’menus with this.”