"We don't do it like this in France!" Variations of the above phrase can often be heard coming out of Cecile's mouth.
Her moaning and banal cultural comparisons are met with fatigued looks and blunt reminders of our current geographic location.
Defending one's country is instinctive. However, New Zealand hasn't always been my home and I must confess that after 11 years here I still occasionally hear myself saying thing like: "This would never happen in England." I'm usually referring to a lack of central heating or the overall pace of building.
When Cecile roped me into writing a guest column in her absence, I struggled to pick a topic, seeing as another contributor had already written about how annoying our French colleague and friend can be . . . and then it hit me.
Being friends with a foreigner leads to an improved understanding of the delightful idiosyncrasies that make cultures - and countries - what they are.
When Cécile Meier asked me to contribute to her column while she was off gallivanting around Europe, I couldn't think of anything to write.
In the weeks since, I've toyed with a few topics, even threatening to spend my 500 words writing about how annoying she is.
But then I thought, 500 isn't enough, so why bother?
I can make a good start with 500 words.
The Press has reluctantly given Cecile Meier leave to visit France and get married. In her absence, some of the people mentioned in her column get a right of reply. Today it's her fiance's turn.
I've been villainised in this column for almost a year. I've become known as the guy who got Cecile lost in the mountains, who made her ride narrow trails on the Port Hills by saying they were easy, and who asked her to bring him a beer while she was sworn off alcohol for a month.
Now I have a chance to clear my name and dish some dirt in return. I could tell you about the "Pensky Incident", what she does with her slippers in the morning, or what she thought a shed was. But I'm not going to.
Mostly that's because of how big-hearted I am. But also because it's not long until the wedding and she'll read this beforehand.
I'm off to Europe to make an honest man out of my fiance Nick.
I'll be away for four weeks, leaving a huge column-shaped hole in your lives. But fear not - I've arranged an all-star team to replace me.
They have all been victims, to some extent, of my desperation for writing material. Everything anyone says to me has the potential to be used in a column. Normally, people don't get the chance to write their versions of events but I can offer a platform to these four.
The first guest writer will be none other than the future Mr Meier.
Nick claims I have exaggerated or even invented things about him. Perhaps Nick will set the record straight on topics such as his dancing or mountaineering skills. Please do not believe a word he writes.
My fiance Nick's dream wedding was going on a hike with a bunch of friends and family and then having a party in a mountain village.
I had many problems with this: How was I going to wear a wedding dress on a hike? How could our grandmothers join in? What if someone broke a leg on the way down? No, really his plan was not practical.
We agreed on a more traditional yet simple option. Our ceremony and party would take place in a little restaurant by the sea in my home town. There would be no intricate flower arrangements, no invitations, and he wouldn't wear a tie.
But Nick was keen to keep one tradition - the first dance. Given our natural talents, this meant lessons.
Learning to dance made me nervous, especially a dance where you have to switch partners every two minutes. Besides, I've never been able to co-ordinate my body to music.
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