I’ve also had several friends who’ve cooked some fairly unremarkable dishes for lovers, and were incredibly amused by the torrents of compliments they got in return.This may be because we are twentysomethings – and I do hope that it will get better with age – but in the meantime, this has proven to be a great ego boost.A less obvious charm of the rosbif would be their near total incapacity to not be awkward in social situations.
Given that we’re about as outspoken as our men, this means that we’ll largely be left in peace on nights out, but won’t mind making the first move if needs be. And if after all this, we end up finding a specific Englishman we’d consider staying with for the foreseeable future, we can bring them back to our families, safe in the knowledge that the language barrier with save either party from any major embarrassment. Just one last thing though: your main advantage may actually be your general lack of unnecessary cockiness, so let’s maybe stop it with the bragging, eh?
The Big Short, the film adaptation of Michael Lewis' book of the same name about the causes of the financial crisis, opens in UK cinemas this weekend.
How will the story stack up against the greatest films about business?
As a French woman living in London, I read Ed Cumming’s latest piece about our apparent preference for British men with great interest.
Though I have to admit that it is factually correct – at least judging from my group of friends – the reasons he gave for why we’d rather be dating specimens from your side of the Channel couldn’t be further from the truth.
For a start, everything we do is apparently French, therefore charming.
If we happen to be wearing some sort of lipstick and have a haircut that’s not basically shaved or ridiculously long, we’ll get compared to Amelie Poulain.
This is normally a good thing, as Audrey Tautou is the patron saint of French women getting laid in England; if her name is mentioned in a conversation, it’s, as I believe you call it, in the bag.
Same goes for smoking: non-smoking French exes complained about feeling like they were kissing an ashtray but here, it’s just seen as a wonderful thing us people do, like eating croissants for every goddamn meal and having read all of Sartre from age seven.
Another frankly outdated cliché playing in our favour is our apparent God-like knowledge of food and wine.
Given that for most of the people I’ve met here, anything that doesn’t taste worse than vinegar counts as decent, my very vague ability to match a certain meal with a certain wine has baffled more than one.