Peaks and Troughs: A (Fairly) Brief Account of Christmas in the Pyrenees (Part Two)

Day 4:
I am struck down with some kind of tummy bug (of course, in French, it would be something much more serious & Latin-sounding, requiring, at the very least, suppositories…). I spend most of the day in bed, emerging only occasionally to bravely nibble on a piece of toast.
Apparently, the others are enjoying a glass of wine and the Christmas spirit. Morale: 0.

FH ventures out to get “food supplies”… and returns with six Magnums, a huge box of chocolates and a jar of Nutella. He is taking advantage of Christmas, my weakened state and the conciliatory presence of my Mum to get away with things I normally frown upon.
“Making fire is hungry work,” he informs me haughtily, when challenged.
“Right, our ancestral cavemen always had a big jar of Nutella to hand, I’m sure…” I snap (sick, but not too sick to be sarcastic).


Day 5:
Sick. Sick. Sick.
BB is no longer interested in me. I have become a boring lump under the bedclothes. He only pops in sporadically, to check if there are any half-eaten bits of toast lying around (and if so, eat them, of course).

I feel as though I have been wrapped in this same flowery duvet for half my life. Weird: could it be some sort of Christmas allergy?

By the end of the day, BB is chanting “Papa! Papa! Papa!” constantly, and looks pained if forced into my weak, sickly arms for more than a few seconds.
Children can be so harsh.


Day 6:
It snows. And snows. And snows.
The snow piles up all around us. The Twingo is smothered. FH fits the expensive chains to the tyres with notable glee.
“So… good job somebody thought to buy chains…” I say smugly.
“Yeah! Lucky we did that!” FH agrees. Saved again by his unfailing selective memory.
He is positively bubbling with excitement at the prospect of driving home tomorrow, in chains.
I, on the other hand, imagine us skidding off the road and plunging into a vast ravine, a thousand metres further down. I try to keep these thoughts mainly to myself.

In the event, of course, we get home safely.

Peaks and Troughs: A (Fairly) Brief Account of Christmas in the Pyrenees (Part One)

Day 1:
Destination: Formiguères, near Font-Romeu, Pyrenées Orientales.

After picking up my Mum at Carcassonne airport, the laden Twingo makes its weary way up the twisty mountain roads… that are surprisingly devoid of snow. We wonder when we’ll have to actually use the very expensive snow chains purchased (shrewd move by me) a day earlier. Turns out, we don’t need them. FH is heard to mutter something involving the words “chains”, “waste of money” and “over-cautious”. I purse my lips. Revenge is a dish best eaten cold, as we shall see.

Later, as we are settling into the gîte, unfolding the flowery bed linen, a big (ish) spider drops out. In a flash of panic, I stamp on it madly, crushing it to death on the spot.
Immediately, I feel bad. It was a savage, unthinking act from a normally animal-loving vegetarian.
I guess the countryside brings out that side of me.

FH makes a log fire, in that age-old tradition of male hunter-gatherers. He becomes more virile by the second. I think: it’s a shame we deprive our men of this opportunity to show their manliness 51 weeks of the year. Maybe that’s all it would take for our 21st century men to feel strong and reassured again?

Day 2:
Perfect blue sky. Mediterranean blue. The view from the gîte looks like a child’s drawing of “winter”. I start to think that being in the mountains is actually quite nice after all.
The soft pad of boots on snow is heart-warming.
Also, I am relieved to discover that the adjacent village boasts a boulangerie AND a crêperie! Somehow, the presence of these two establishments provides a sense of security. If you are confused by these sentiments, let me explain. I am the girl who, not so very long ago, was shamefully heard to plead: “Get me back to bloody civilisation!” in the course of a 2-week holiday in Martinique. I admit it: I’m a bit of a city girl at heart.

Day 3:
More blue sky. BB is being taken care of by his Nana. FH and I lie in bed in the morning and listen to the sounds of someone else making his bottle, preparing his breakfast, dealing with his impatience… and a wicked smile of contentment creeps across our faces. We are on holiday!

Regular readers will recall that BB was supposed to get chickenpox this week. We have come armed with lotions and suppositories (suppositories are good for everything in France). Every day, we scrutinize BB’s face and body for signs of the first telltale spot – but nothing appears. After all that build-up, we are slightly disconcerted by the absence of the pox. Suddenly, I think I’ve found one on his cheek! But on closer inspection, it reveals itself to be a smudge of chocolate.

Flying the Nest

Yesterday was our “much revered” office Christmas lunch. This once-a-year treat involves sitting at a long table with fifteen or so colleagues in a sort of “last supper” configuration, and being served what the firm’s canteen calls a “repas amélioré”. This literally means “improved meal”. Everyone at the firm talks about the “repas amélioré” – in fact, you’ll hear that term used far more frequently than a simple “repas de Noel”. Just to underline how special it is, I suppose.

For anyone who might have been wondering what the French like to eat for Christmas lunch, here’s a partial answer. Our “repas amélioré” consisted of stuffed pigeon. No, that’s not a typing error, it was supposed to read “stuffed pigeon”.
Now, I realise that tastes are subjective, and that not everyone is a devout lifelong vegetarian like me, but doesn’t that just beg the question “what the heck is the non-improved everyday version, then??” Grilled rat?

The canteen tries to innovate every year. No two Christmas meals are ever the same. Well, this year just takes the ticket for me. Naturally, I made do with a chunk of cheese and some bread whilst trying desperately not to glance down at the spindly little bird legs sticking out of adjoining plates.

The general consensus, from what I could gather, appeared to be that the pigeon had been tasty. Thankfully, at least, I am no longer subjected to an hour-long inquisition as to why I refuse to partake of such succulent regional delicacies during these lunches. This was my fate for the first few years, but they all know me now. They know I’m a bit “funny” when it comes to food, and they make allowances. It’s very decent of them to be so understanding.


Well, that’s all folks. I’m taking my petit parapluie (little umbrella), my snow boots and my woolly hat and heading up to the Pyrenees for the holidays. More news in a week or so, hopefully with some aesthetically snowy landscape shots.Happy Christmas to all!

Le père Noel est une ordure / Santa Sucks

I don’t think this photo requires any further comment.
How could I deprive my readers of such a brilliant specimen?!

Suffice to say, BB seems to have inherited his mother’s love of all things Christmassy…
(even Father Christmas looks rather fed up, doesn’t he?).

Private Eye

One of my secret, treasured pastimes is people-watching. Or better: benevolently eavesdropping. I do this by going into a café alone, ordering a coffee, sipping it slowly and just being non-descript. Before long, the people around me forget I’m there and carry on their conversations as freely as though they were in their own living room.

Last week, for example, I learnt all about the argument one woman had had with her husband that morning before work (he hadn’t offered to pick her up after her doctor’s appointment = he didn’t care about her = he was a mean, undeserving excuse for a man).

I watched the way the woman’s friend listened to the story of the argument, nodding her head sympathetically and sneaking a glance at her watch. I saw the friend take a little gift out of her bag and offer it to the other woman. I snuck a look at the woman’s face as she opened the gift and I saw the tiniest flicker of disappointment in her eyes just before she exclaimed how beautiful it was and launched into a grateful bise.

There is no purpose to this people-watching. And, I must stress, it’s a totally non-judgemental activity: I don’t do it to sneer at people or feel superior. Not at all. I’m just fascinated by other people, and the way they are and interact with each other. Maybe I also see something of myself in everybody else, in the details.
It’s like reality TV, only far, far better, because the people I secretly observe are just being themselves, not performing for a TV camera.

Does anyone else have a secret hobby like this?
People-watching is ultimately harmless, and, in its defence, the cost-enjoyment ratio is very favourable.

On Saturday afternoon, however, it was my turn to go to the salon de thé with a group of three girlfriends. We laughed loudly and chatted freely about everything under the sun. And I wondered at one point: is anyone listening in? Pretending to read a magazine yet secretly observing us?
But as soon as I’d wondered this, I realised that it really didn’t matter at all. Being on the “other side” is just as much fun: a spectator turned actor for a couple of hours.

Turkey’s off. Anyone fancy a chicken (pox)?

Last night, after struggling single-handedly through BB’s bathtime / mealtime / bedtime routine, I noticed that the little light on our answering machine was flashing.
Oh goody, a message.

“Bonne soirée!” sang my friend Carla’s sweet Franco-Portuguese voice. Carla had come to visit us only last Sunday, with her two year-old son Gabriel.
“Just checking how you are…” she began, “oh, and by the way, Gabriel came down with chickenpox yesterday, so I thought you should know… I mean, because he played with BB on Sunday… So, well, I guess you’ve got some chickenpox to look forward to! Anyway, joyeux Noel!”

Flustered, I went online to do a little research. It just gets better and better. Apparently, chickenpox has a two-week incubation period. So, that will take us right up to… well, fancy that, right up to the day we set off to an isolated village in the Pyrenees for Christmas week!
Then, just to round off this chain of good news, my eye fell upon the last line of the medical document I was reading: “chickenpox is one of the most contagious illnesses in existence. You don’t even have to have physical contact to catch it: just breathing the same air is usually enough!”

Poor BB. Now when I look at his smiley, innocent face, I can’t help thinking (gulp) : “you’re condemned. It’s just a matter of time.”

It’s all the fault of Christmas, if you ask me.

"It's for your own good!"

BB with short-back-and-sides. Nice and neat and spruced up for Christmas, just the way his Nana wants him! And yes, he is indeed sitting IN the food cupboard. I think his dream would be to actually turn into an item of food and eat himself…

Yesterday afternoon, it was time for BB’s regular medical check-up, with the added bonus of a double-vaccination.

If you imagine what your own reaction might be if, say, you stubbed your big toe on a doorframe, and then someone came over and deliberately bashed the aforementioned toe with a big hammer… you will be some way to appreciating BB’s attitude to these medical visits. Absolute, sheer, ear-splitting horror and indignation. It’s always a very fraught experience for all concerned, not least the poor doctor (though I’m sure he’s seen worse).

The scrunched up, indignant face starts as soon as we’re on the stairs that lead to the waiting area (BB, not the doctor). He sometimes gets distracted by the toys on offer if we have to wait a few minutes, but as soon as he hears Doc’s footsteps, all hell breaks loose.
His eyes disappear into two watery slits, his face turns purple and his tonsils become very visible (this is sometimes an advantage, when Doc wants to check his throat).
I am thus trying to jiggle BB into a state of only mild hysteria whilst making polite chit-chat with Doc, who always manages to stroke my arm, touch my shoulder and slip in at least five compliments at every visit (I think he rather likes me).
As the visit progresses, I start to perspire under the pressure of it all.

Yesterday’s visit followed this well-trodden path. By the time the needle had to go in, BB was practically convulsing. I clasped his little body to my chest while Doc plunged the needle into his back with the precision and cheeriness of an experienced grouse hunter.
I rubbed his back, made loud, soothing sounds and walked briskly around the surgery four times – as instructed – in a plea to make BB forget the terrible thing that had just happened.

Then, fully clothed again, he sat on my knee, hiccupping dolefully while I signed the cheque and Doc launched into a pleasant discussion about Britain’s refusal to join the Euro (he seems to enjoy discussions based on British-French cultural differences, during which I am expected to laugh ruefully and say something to the effect of “ah yes, Britain is a strange country!” For the sake of peace, I always oblige).

On the way home, BB, still watery-eyed and snuffly, kept shooting me hurt looks.
For him, these visits are inexplicably cruel torture sessions.
For me, they are black spots on the otherwise sunny path of our mother-son Wednesdays.

One day at least, BB will be able to understand my imploring “it’s for your own good, I promise!”. And then he’ll smile stoically, be brave and hold in the tears. Won’t he?

Seasons Grrrrrrrr-eetings!

When I walked bleary-eyed into the office this morning, I got a shock. Some bright spark has seen fit to adorn the office with gaudy strips of tinsel and chirpy “Joyeux Noel!” banners. Christmas is here, folks: oh mon dieu.

I don’t care much for tinsel. But I positively hate glittery “Joyeux Noel!” banners dragged out of cardboard boxes and hung jauntily from desks. For some reason, the jauntier they try to be, the more depressing I find them.

I know that this post will lose me some precious readers. Admitting you’re not a huge fan of Christmas seems to translate into something akin to “I shot Rudolph and ground him into mincemeat” in the ears of most cheerful, Christmas-loving folk.
Well, I’m sorry.
I do like some things about Christmas, honestly. The time off work, for example.
But I don’t like cheap, glittery decorations in offices, I don’t like paper party hats, I don’t like crackers, I don’t like office Christmas lunches with colleagues in paper party hats, I don’t like pointless plastic gifts (giving or receiving) and I don’t like TURKEY! (well, I do, but only when they’re alive and free to roam wherever they like).

I have to be strong, though. The worst is yet to come. Right about now is the time my next-door neighbour usually hangs her huge, plastic, flashing Santa head from her front door. It’s really quite public-spirited of her to decorate her own front door for the benefit of everyone else. So how come the sight of his big, smiley, flashing mouth makes me want to reach for the bottle?

Oh dear. There’s rather a lot of grumbling going on at the moment, isn’t there?

(sorry, no flashing Santa photo available yet, but stay tuned...)

Walk the Line

I used to get very upset about French people’s attitude to queuing. I found them so rude, so individualistic, so…so… annoying in their refusal to acknowledge a line of patiently queuing people and tag politely onto the end of it.
But now I’m beginning to wonder whether their failure to play the queuing game may be the result of a deep cultural divide that is not so much about one nation being polite (Brits) and the other rude (French) but rather a fundamentally different (and perhaps even legitimate) perspective on the whole matter.

Let me explain.
Last week I was waiting in line to buy my ticket at the cinema. There were two tills open (this was a private cinema, after all, not the Post Office!) but only one line (in front of one of the tills): everyone had presumably decided that if people were queuing in this way, there must be a reason for it. It crossed my mind that this was a surprisingly orderly situation, but quickly gave a Gallic shrug and joined the end of the line.
However, the next person to join the queue (let’s call him a “young gentleman”) looked perplexed. He ummed, aahed, cleared his throat several times then launched a bewildered “er, does anyone know why no-one’s waiting at the other till?” at everybody in general. Most people shrugged, muttered something incomprehensible and looked vague.
“Well, I think we’re just being polite,” I offered helpfully. “There’s one line, and then people go to whichever till-”

Of course, I never got chance to finish my sentence. Once he had deduced that the people in my queue were merely weak-minded, slightly dim sheep with zero initiative, he shot off to be the first member of the new, parallel queue.
“Well!” I exclaimed… but my indignation faltered and died as half the members of my queue stampeded past me into the new queue, headed by our quick-witted young gentleman. In short, it took all of 5 seconds for a new queue to form: people who only seconds earlier had been waiting patiently suddenly woke up and saw the light. People who’d been at the end of the old queue propelled themselves into pole position in the new queue without a thought for anyone else.

I was stunned. Upset. Shaken by this mass display of cut-throat individualism.
And that’s when I thought: wait a minute, maybe I’m the fool here, not him. I mean, come on, do I have no common sense? There’s a till available and a huge open space in front of it, and all I can think is “ho hum, well, that’s not for little old me, I should just join the longest line and wait as long as possible, thank you very much (and sorry to bother you)”.
That other guy showed initiative and good on him. Maybe the French just admire that get-up-and-go mentality more than the “sorry to disturb, don’t mind me, I’ll just tag along here and be polite” approach. And why not?



(this is not true, of course. I’m just trying to be culturally open-minded for the benefit of my French readers. I secretly still think the French are just rude when it comes to queuing!).

California Dreamin'

Is anyone else fed up of winter already? Fed up of the biting cold, monotonous grey sky and constant, fine, hair-fizzing drizzle? Fed up of the dark nights and the eerie atmosphere of a light-deprived open space where grey-faced colleagues stare at fuzzy computer screens?
And the worst part is: it isn’t even officially winter yet. Not until December 21st can we feel legitimately cold and miserable.

If only I was a passionate skier and could look forward to a potential season of snow and thrilling sensations…
Sadly, I prefer the less high-risk pleasure of lying on warm sand with the sun caressing my bikini-clad body.
I’d rather glide through a little warm Mediterranean sea water than whiz down a white slop clad in ten layers of puffy, garish skiwear.
I’d rather eat a Greek salad than a cassoulet.

In short, winter is not for me.

So why, why, why, I ask myself, did I dare to complain about the heat in Martinique this summer? How could I have moaned and winged and longed to feel a cool breeze on my hot and bothered cheeks? What was I thinking of? I should have savoured every steaming, boiling second of it, and stocked up enough sunny hormones to get me through this horrible winter.

How wise we are after the event. How easy it is to appreciate the beauty of a moment with the benefit of six months hindsight…

But perhaps the main purpose of winter is to give us something to look forward to. Our patience and imagination are fine-tuned as we dream of a future filled with sea breezes and natural light.

PS The photo is from Martinique, not California, but you get the idea.

Show Business

Last weekend I was lucky enough to see two shows. The first was on Friday afternoon at an esteemed crèche in a genteel area of Toulouse (average age of audience: 1.9 years).
The second was held in a café-theatre on Saturday afternoon, and entitled “Les monologues du vagin” (The Vagina Monologues, for all those who dropped French in third year and never got as far as learning the word for “vagina”). Average age of audience: 40 (all age groups represented).

There were some notable similarities between these two performances. Both relied wholly on the talents of three women, for example. In both cases, the actresses managed to convey an impressive range of emotions with only minimal props. Both made use of music, though not in quite the same way. All the actresses made savage, animal sounds at some point… but not for the same purpose. Both audiences were captivated.

Which did I prefer? Well, on Friday afternoon, I was pink-cheeked with happiness at seeing the whole-hearted fascination of BB and his comrades. On Saturday afternoon, I was pink-cheeked with embarrassment after realising that I perhaps wasn’t quite as liberal-minded as I’d thought. On Friday afternoon, my mind wandered affably at one point: isn’t this nice? Isn’t it refreshing to take a break from reality for a while, to be in a place where the roses are red, the sky is blue, and even the carrots have big smiley faces?
On Saturday afternoon, my mind wandered uneasily at one point: wouldn’t it be nice if they said something other than the V-word occasionally? Anything else, really. I’m not fussy.

Don’t get me wrong: The Vagina Monologues is funny. It made me laugh: I’m no prude (I think). But on the way home the thought crossed my mind: thank goodness it’s a high-brow, intellectual sort of play that started life in the arty theatres of New York. Otherwise… well, otherwise you might be mistaken for thinking it was just three women saying the V-word a lot.

Food Monsters: The Sequel

Here’s what happens on a deceptively peaceful Sunday morning when father and son have their hearts set on the same bowl of cereal.
The battle scenes that follow are not for the faint-hearted.

Stage 1: FH, sensing an imminent attack, fills his mouth to capacity in a last-ditch attempt to hide the booty.

Stage 2: FH makes a fatal strategic error: the bowl drops within reach of BB.

Stage 3: BB takes control of the spoon. He knows it’s almost over: FH is unlikely to recover his earlier momentum.

Stage 4: BB cries victory.

Quick Lesson in Statistics

This morning I donned coat, hat, scarf and gloves and set off to work on my bike. As usual. Except that this morning, the outside temperature was –2°.
I felt very, very cold. And very, very smug.
So, it would appear that the degree of smugness one feels when cycling to work is inversely proportional to the outside temperature.

And whoever said us literary types can’t do a bit of math?

Food Monsters

Living with two males (FH: 37; BB: 15 months) has taught me a lot about food. More specifically: about quantities of food.
Men and boys eat a lot. They have ferocious appetites. They can a/ be very grumpy, and b/ cry hysterically, if their stomachs are not filled at the opportune moment. They never ever refuse an offer of food. And yet, they do not get fat.

BB is only 15 months old and he eats almost as much as I do. This is a baby who still can’t be bothered to put one foot in front of the other and actually walk, yet has been handling cutlery like an expert for months. Clearly, he has priorities.

I have resorted to putting labels on food in the fridge – DO NOT EAT. THIS IS FOR BB – to preserve the meals I have prepared for BB. I hide bananas in a secret place in my wardrobe so that FH’s roaming hands to do not absent-mindedly grab them, peel them and pop them in his mouth in the time it takes to say bon appétit. And as for me, well, I used to have a secret stash of emergency chocolate just for me… but FH found it. And that was the end of that.

FH sometimes calls me “The Food Factory”, because of the huge amount of time I spend peeling, chopping, mashing, steaming, etc. (There was a time we used to have more romantic pet names for each other but hey, times change…).

The reason I’m telling you all this is: I’m afraid for the future. What will happen in ten years time when BB is on a pre-teenage growth spurt? I may whither away through lack of nourishment if I fail to get to the food fast enough! My daily life will be a constant battle to get to the fridge before they do! I will probably rely on food parcels from sympathetic friends and family members, so please, take pity. I’m counting on your support.

Mmm. Mmm. Mmmmmm.

OK, next course, please!

Hum. Maybe it’ll go down even faster if I use two hands...

Poetry and Prose

Yesterday morning I was vaguely listening to France Inter (my favourite radio station) while driving BB to crèche in the pouring rain. The presenter was talking about the results of a new survey of what makes (French) people happy. A random selection of the public was asked to define what they thought they needed to feel happy, here and now. Turns out the results are:
1/ More money
2/ Good health
3/ Time for oneself.

The presenter commented that this is the first time “money” has hit the number 1 spot, beating even “love”, “friends” and “family”, none of which make it into the top 3.
“Hum!” I muttered glumly to BB as the rain pelted against the windscreen. “Well, I reckon I agree. If only we had a bit more money…”
BB gurgled a complex response that suggested he’d given the matter careful thought.

Anyway, later in the day – the survey long since forgotten – I was having a silent moan to myself that went something like this: when did my life become so humdrum? Where’s the poetry gone? All I do is make food, sit in traffic jams, type on keyboards and arrange for cracked windscreens to be repaired (you can guess what today’s exciting project was…).
Then, because I felt guilty about this miserable thought, I decided to take one minute to consider the “poetic” things that had happened to me in the day (i.e., non-mundane, happy moments). So, my list went:

1/ Cold hands curled around a mug of hot coffee, sharing a laugh with Sophie & Marie, my good friends (&, luckily for me, colleagues)
2/ Phonecall from FH, just to check I’d got to work safely
3/ BB’s smile when he saw my face at the door and realised it was home time
4/ Glug-glug of red wine poured into two glasses, one for FH, one for me: a moment of calm after the whirlwind of BB’s bedtime routine.

Who would have guessed? My cynical side has been put to shame: it would seem that “love”, “friends” and “family” top my happiness list after all. I wonder if maybe the people who answered the survey underestimated themselves: money is fine, and it’s great to have some, but can it really buy you the fleeting glimpses of poetry that, in the end, made my day seem like a happy one?

Life in the Slow Lane

On Saturday afternoon, I had a very pleasant experience. I went to buy a bottle of wine to take to the dinner party I had been invited to that evening. However, instead of just going to the supermarket, choosing a decent-looking bottle from a head-spinning choice of hundreds, then queuing for twenty minutes to have it beeped and chucked into a plastic bag… I went to a small wine shop that was a bit like stepping back in time fifty years (or so I would imagine, I’m not that old). For one thing, it was pretty. The floors were wooden, the ceilings high, and rows of beautifully presented bottles stood proudly on shelves that looked solid and reassuring, as though they were there to last, possibly for another century or so. The staff wore long aprons and their unhurried footsteps made gentle tap-tap sounds on the floor as they went about their business.

The really pleasant thing about it all, though, was the service. I was greeted with a polite bonjour, and asked whether I required any assistance. When I explained what I was looking for (nothing exceptionally expensive, I hasten to point out: I could definitely not have been mistaken for a rich wine connoisseur…), the woman serving me showed me a selection of five bottles and described each one in detail, explaining nuances of flavour and grape-type that made me wish that my own wine-related vocabulary contained a slightly bigger stock of adjectives than “lovely!” and “fruity!”.
Anyway, once I’d made my well-informed choice, the lady asked me if I’d like my bottle wrapped.
In true British, “I’m so sorry to bother you…” style, I said something to the effect of “oh, well, only if you have time…”
Of course she had time. She carefully wrapped my bottle in crisp white paper, folding the ends and taping them down. A curly ribbon was then added as a sweet festive touch. Then – beautiful detail coming up – she slipped the wrapped bottle into a little bag and hung it on a tiny brass hook by the till. This was so I wouldn’t have to juggle the bag and my purse and the coins while I paid for my purchase.
Once I’d paid, I unhooked my bag and took leave, to a friendly chorus of “Merci, Madame, et bonne journée!” from the three members of staff.

This experience reminded me of a passage in Philippe Delerm’s book “The First Sip of Beer”, a book whose only purpose is to point out the simple pleasures of life to those of us who don’t always appreciate them. It made me nostalgic for an era when – I imagine – buying something was actually a conscious act to be savoured and not just a race to consume as much as possible, as quickly as possible.

In some small way, it’s good for the soul to feel you’re an individual deserving of a bonjour, a conversation and a merci… rather than simply a walking credit card with a faceless human being attached.

Seeing the Light

Just to let you know that any frustrated readers who wished to comment on something I’ve written, but were flummoxed (what a great, under-used word that is!) by the French instructions on this blog, can now do so! The language has been changed to make it all a bit easier.
All you have to do is click on “comments” at the end of the post, and create a profile.Please feel free to comment on anything I write. It’s nice to know you’re out there.

French Kisses

(sorry about the clichéd title... but how could I avoid it?)

This post is the first of a new category that I’ll call “Grumble”. As you would expect, this category pays homage to that revered and priceless British pastime: grumbling. There will probably be many more such posts over the coming weeks, so I thought it best to warn you. Happy-go-lucky, eternally optimistic readers who prefer to see the best in everybody and everything should feel free to skip all posts in this category.

So, on to the kissing.
As you know, kissing – or the bise - is a sacred institution in France. You can be expected to indulge in a hearty round of cheek pecking every time you meet up with a group of friends, for example. But that’s fine, because they’re your friends. You must also be prepared to kiss the cheeks (and make enthusiastic “mwa” sounds) of people you’re being introduced to for the first time, depending on the context (basically, any social context whatsoever, and sometimes even in a chance encounter in the street). All of this, I can cope with.

The plot thickens when it comes to work. Lots of colleagues like to share a bise with their fellow workers of a morning. Some even walk around an entire open space – nay, an entire floor! – looking for available cheeks to snap their lips onto. This makes me slightly more uncomfortable.
You are probably thinking that it should be fairly easy to wriggle one’s way out of an unwelcome bise, by extending a brisk, professional hand, for example (to indicate that a handshake is your preferred form of greeting), or whisking your cheek out of the way at the crucial moment. These are all options, of course. However, there is more at stake here than you might imagine.
Someone who refuses the bise will probably be considered a little bit strange. Cold. Anti-social. I have personally witnessed conversations between colleagues discussing the oddness of another colleague who systematically turns the other cheek. To refuse the bise is to exclude yourself a little bit. And as a British person, you just can’t afford to do that. If only to crush all the idées reçues, you must show that you’re warm-hearted, unreserved, tactile!

So, I boldly respond to any bise that is thrust upon me. Today, however, even I was caught off guard and left feeling a little peeved. A certain male colleague who works in my building – but with whom I have no direct dealings – popped down to my floor to “do the rounds”. I got ready to grin and bear it. This bise, however, was unlike any I’ve received before: eye-poppingly firm and way closer to the lips than is acceptable. Pulling away in surprise, I blustered: “Erm, hold on, that was a bit close wasn’t it?!”
“Oh sorry!” said my friendly colleague, eyes gleaming. “I’m not wearing my glasses, you see: it makes it hard to judge distances!”

Indeed. His dodgy judgement would probably have been a suing offence in the US.
But this is the south of France, and you have to accept a sprinkling of hot-blooded males around the place. For me, rightly or wrongly, it’s all in a day’s work. So this is really quite a stoical grumble, all things considered.

PS. Mean Security Man and I are friends again. This morning, I slowed down and held out my badge (photo right way up) in the conventional manner. He responded with a professional nod and a complex grimace/half-smile/ pursed lips form of salute. Harmony is restored… and this remains, at least, one resolutely bise-free zone!

Unbearable Lightness

Yesterday morning I left my son with a woman he hardly knows while I went to get a massage.

Now read that line again, this time in the manner of someone standing up to introduce themselves at their first AA meeting.
You should be a little closer to appreciating how bad I felt.

It all sort of snowballed: first, I decided to book a massage with a colleague’s daughter (she’s a beautician), then the only slot available was Wednesday (my day off), then my colleague offered to look after BB while I had the massage, then I protested that I couldn’t possibly, then she insisted that of course I could, then I said thank you but no, I would feel too bad, then she said of course you can, it won’t hurt him…
There were repeat performances of this discussion for a few more days, and then we agreed that I would do it.

Then massage day came and the guilt started to cloy at my skin like some kind of creepy hot oil treatment.
We pitched up at my colleague’s house, and BB promptly burst into tears. He sobbed and clung to me for dear life. And that was before I’d even taken his coat off.
We sat him down and spread out about twenty familiar toys around him, gave him a biscuit (always worth a try) and made a lot of soothing, cooing, “aren’t you lucky to be here!” sounds.
He upped the volume, chest heaving, and clung to my knees in heart-breaking desperation.
“I can’t do it!” I told my colleague weakly.
“Of course you can! Just go, quickly, and relax!” she enthused.
So I prised myself away and left, feeling utterly miserable, and as far away from “relaxed” as it’s possible to be in a non-life threatening situation.

By the time I’d arrived at the Massage Parlour (is that what you call those places?) – a mere five-minute drive away – my colleague had already phoned. Phoned to say what: that BB had worked himself into an epileptic fit? Deliberately banged his head against the wall in despair?
No, she phoned to say that he had stopped crying the minute I left the house; indeed, was already giggling and exploring his new surroundings by the time my Twingo edged its guilty way out of the driveway.
Relief. And confusion. Had my 1-year-old BB been trying out some – dare I say it? – emotional blackmail?!

So I had the massage and it was very pleasant. I rushed back to collect BB, expecting something akin to a hero’s welcome. He looked up briefly from his game, arched an eyebrow, then smiled beatifically at his new babysitter.

We had lunch, came home, and all was right with the world.

Except that I’m so emotionally drained, I could really do with a good massage…

Monday Morning Meltdown

Those readers who know me well will recall that I am an avid cyclist. I love pedalling along to work, even the uphill bits, even (though not always) on crisp, November mornings in the semi-darkness.
I think I especially love the smug sense of superiority I get from whizzing past a line of slow-moving cars as I speed along, unhampered and free!
Anyway, it sometimes happens that, as I am cycling, I get a little lost in my thoughts. Admittedly, this is not an ideal situation, from a safety perspective, but I have been fairly lucky in only notching up one minor accident in six years of city cycling (and the other party came off worse!).

Yesterday morning, however, I was so preoccupied that I sped through security at the entrance to the Firm without so much as a glance at the security man (or, mean security man, as he shall now be known). I should probably explain that all staff are required to show their badge before entering the great realm of the Firm. Even staff who have cycled past the same security man every working day for the past six years (give or take the odd holiday or maternity leave) must do so. It’s a matter of principle, obviously.
But yesterday, I didn’t. I just sailed on, oblivious.
This blatant flouting of the rules made security man livid, and within seconds he was yelling “Come back here, Madam!” red-faced and incredulous. Alerted to my faux-pas, I ground to a halt, paralysed as security man strode over, practically frothing at the mouth at the impertinence of it all. I’m not sure exactly what he said but the words are irrelevant: the entire message was conveyed in the angry tone of voice.
Not one to be easily intimidated, I piped up: “OK, OK, I get it, but you’d better speak to me in a different tone of voice!” (rough translation of the French, which sounded better somehow).
Well, this made him positively explode. “Go back and ride through again and show me your badge this time!” he ordered, determined to humiliate me.

Poor security man. He had no idea who he was up against. At that point, I snapped, burst into tears and proceeded to sob unprettily for an indeterminate length of time. I don’t know exactly why it happened: probably just an outpouring of the things that had been preoccupying me as I was cycling along, and that I hadn’t yet had an opportunity to express.
Well, it felt pretty awful at the time, and as far as I could make out through the sobbing, security man simply slunk back into his booth, aghast, but, in a funny way, I felt better afterwards.
A good cry on a Monday morning before work: you don’t plan it that way, but sometimes that’s the way it happens.
I hope security man had a good day. Maybe he was so scared he was actually nice to people after that?

(Perhaps I could have called this post “When the inner life and the outer life collide”, but that would have been far too dramatic…).

Parapluie contre Paradis...

So, I have a blog. To the dubious, I will say this: I was valiantly anti-blog for a long, long time, so don’t think that this has all happened on a whim. I still have the niggling feeling that there’s something terribly narcissistic about the whole process but, well, you know how it is: my friends are all doing it (and doing it well), so… why not me?
And despite my reservations, today, a small, self-indulgent part of me is going “This is it! I’m famous! I have a blog!” Sad, misguided, celebrity culture… here I come!

The thing about blogs is that they usually improve a lot over time. In other words, the worst is now. Bear with me, oh-so non-judgemental readers, there are wittier, more interesting times ahead!

Oh, and lastly: I finally decided to jump on the blog bandwagon after a very enlightening discussion with a wonderful friend – O – who I bumped into by chance on Saturday afternoon when we both dived into the only non-busy side street in Toulouse at exactly the same time.
O convinced me that bloggers are not pathetic, and that, by testing my ability to write readable stuff on a regular basis, I would be taking important steps down the road to publication (recognition, fame, Nobel Prize for Literature, etc.).
Sincere thanks, O. You know who you are…