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?
Friday 28 November 2008
Thursday 27 November 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday 25 November 2008
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?
Monday 24 November 2008
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.
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.
Friday 21 November 2008
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.
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!”
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!
Thursday 20 November 2008
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.
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…
Tuesday 18 November 2008
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?
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…).
Monday 17 November 2008
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…
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…
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