driving miss laure

Driving with my pal Laure Heysch through the countryside around Kilcullen.
Laure is an interpreter at the European parliament. She taught me French about ten years ago and never quite managed to shake me off.
As we drive, all these years later, I'm still trying to get a free French lesson out of her.
"What's the French for seal, Laure?" I ask.
"Phocque," sez Laure.
"No way," sez I.
"Way," sez Laure.
"The little sea animals that look like dogs. You call them phocques?"
"We do."
I laugh with more delight than strictly speaking is appropriate.
"It sounds just like..."
"Yes," sez Laure.
We drive on.
"Phocque," I roar suddenly as a boy racer in a battered 1970s Ford Capri, pulls out of a side road in front of us. "The little phocquer nearly phocquin killed us."
Laure looks at me suspiciously.
"James are you going to keep this up for long?" she wonders.
"Laure old chum," I reply in a rush of candour, "I don't think I'm ever going to be able to stop."