The Building Blocks of Life

Last weekend we decided to give BB the Lego set we bought for him over a year ago, and have been saving for a “rainy day”. Well, several hundred rainy days and one wind-storm later, and despite the “Age 2 upwards” clearly marked on the box, we caved in. I was doubtful about giving an “Age 2 upwards” toy to a 17-month old, but then I thought, what the heck, let’s live dangerously for once! Anyway, he seems to have a real passion for taking things apart and putting them together again, so the signs were good.

As FH struggled to open the box, BB’s excitement reached new heights. Gasping, his whole body trembled, and as each new package emerged from the box, he exclaimed “Wow! Wow! Wow!” (I wonder where he learnt to be so over-dramatic??!).

Well, we were not disappointed. The Lego provided hours of fun. Frowning in concentration, BB stuck square blocks together, observed them, pulled them apart block by block, spread out the pieces, began all over again…
It is the first time he has shown more than a passing interest in any bought toy. Most of the aesthetic, hand-crafted, highly educational and expensive toys he has been presented with so far have met with nothing more than a phlegmatic raised eyebrow.
And nothing has ever captivated him more than the three old ballpoint pens he likes to study. Or the empty (plastic) milk bottle he favours. I don’t know how long his interest in Lego will last, but at the moment I am basking in the pleasure of having chosen the “right” toy.

Gone With the Wind

Our brave tree, a Survivor

On Saturday, we experienced our very own Caribbean-esque storm here in Toulouse. The wind howled at more than 150 km/hr all day, creating a very eerie atmosphere (shutters banged, trees creaked, electricity cables wobbled dramatically…).
FH spent most of the day with his nose pressed against the window, providing live, breathless commentary on the state of the rather large tree (see above) that was bending and swaying just in front of our house.
“It’s going… it’s going! No, no, it’s OK! Wait! It’s going, it’s going...!”
And so it went on. For hours. FH has never been one to shy away from a bit of drama…

It has to be said, we don’t usually get much in the way of extreme weather down here in the south-west of France. A sprinkling of snow (and that sends the city into turmoil) and a very hot summer are about as extreme as it gets. So people tend to get a little over-excited when a wind storm of this calibre hits us.

Anyway, w escaped not too badly, all things considered. Sure, the chimney didn’t survive (but it has been teetering precariously since about 1945…), and the streets are littered with fallen branches, but no-one here was injured, not even the Twingo, and our good old tree survived.

FH gathered all this information first-hand. He became self-appointed damage inspector next morning, authoritatively patrolling the neighbourhood with Gruff Old Man (our neighbour).They were very sweet. I suspect that, deep down, they’re almost a tiny bit disappointed that the storm has passed…

Split Personality

Well, here’s the feedback on my attempt to be assertive, individualistic and French.

It was one of those classic situations: crowded car park, one free space, two cars drawn towards it at exactly the same time.
My instinctive reaction was, naturally, to slip meekly into reverse and get out of the way so that car no. 2 (my opponent) could access the space more easily.
Then a strange, assertive voice inside my head piped up “Hey! That space should be yours! Look, that guy is about sixty, he’s on his own – probably retired – and has all the time in the world to be wandering around shopping centres,” (the assertive voice was not very politically correct…) “but you, on the other hand, are a busy mother with a whining baby in the back and not enough time!”
Yes, I thought, heart pounding, you’re right!
So without further hesitation, I swung the Twingo into the free space a tad more aggressively than necessary, flashing a triumphant smile at my opponent as I did so.

Ha! I turned off the engine, feeling victorious.

But then – gulp – I saw that old guy-opponent had not budged but was still indicating that he was planning to turn.
“Oh no!” fretted strange, meek voice (in my head) “He’s angry! He’s going to wait for you to get out and there’ll be a confrontation and you’ll have to apologise for being so impolite!”
So I slipped down into my seat a little further and pretended to be fumbling around for something on the floor to gain time.
When next I sneaked a glance upwards, I saw that old guy was pulling into the space right next to me!
What a horrible, embarrassing coincidence! Of all the cars in the car park, why did my neighbour have to decided to evacuate right then?? Arg! This meant that old guy and I would be forced to get out at the same time, and I would then be face to face with him, without the comforting outer shell of my Twingo!
A little rosy-cheeked at this point, I continued my futile search for a non-existent object in the glove compartment. Then I turned round and pretended to be having a chirpy chat with BB, who scowled at me impatiently.
Old guy took forever to clamber out of his big car. When at last he did, he glanced over at me with a haughty look of disapproval. I did my best to look defiant.. but the rosy cheeks didn’t help.

So, shall we conclude that my assertiveness experiment was only partially successful?

Optimism seemed to have caught him unawares

This beautiful line is not my own – unfortunately – but appears in a book called “The Road Home”, by Rose Tremain. I won’t often bore you with the details of great books I’ve read recently, but this one really deserves a special mention. It’s the story of an Eastern European immigrant who arrives in London, hoping to find work, make some money and improve the quality of life of his loved ones, back home. And of course, it’s not as easy as he expects. This is one of those novels where everything – characters, mood, setting – just seem to come alive, and despite all the other pressing things you have to attend to, you just can’t help turning page after page…
You quickly feel that Lev is someone you know, you want to reach out and offer him a word of encouragement, you feel pained that his private plight goes largely unnoticed.
And the ending is unexpected, thought-provoking…

Anyway, I love the idea that optimism might catch you unawares. Like pure contentedness. Rare moments to be noted and treasured.

Afterthought: Today, America gets a new president, and, rightly or wrongly, we can’t help feeling he might just be a good guy, someone we can believe in. So, regardless of how things may turn out later, I for one woke up this morning feeling optimistic. And why not?

The New Me

Something my friend Delphine said regarding my brand new French citizenship (see yesterday’s Comments) got me thinking…

Mmm… What if, to celebrate my new Frenchness, I decided to really BE French for a day, i.e. act totally like a French person. Inspired partly by some of the quirks and observations noted on this blog, my day-long project could include some (or all) of the following:

- Hearty kisses for everyone I meet, even people I am briefly introduced to and will probably never see again

- Initiating the bise with hand-shaking colleagues, and revelling in their awkwardness

- Deliberately jumping queues and acting surprised if challenged

- Driving aggressively, failing to respect right of way and beeping angrily at the car in front if it is not moving at (at least) 10 km more than the speed limit (this may be a Toulouse-specific, rather than a French thing…)

- Eating any animal (or animal part) whose poor carcass happens to end up on my plate: horse, snails, frogs, pigeons… (No! No, I just can’t do this one! Would it be alright to just eat cheese instead?)

- Never ever saying sorry, or excuse-me (unless I do something really wrong, of course).

Is this a good idea?
Well, I’ll let you know how it goes…
PS Please don’t be upset, dear French readers. You know that I ADORE this country, which is why I am allowed to indulge in some gentle mocking from time to time. Sorry. Er – no, not sorry. (sorry).

Red, White and Blue (X two)

At the risk of upsetting any very patriotic British readers, I have to tell you that something quite wonderful happened to me last week. The République of France finally decided to accept my nationality application. As of January 1st, I am French (as well as British)!

I realise that the significance of this event is 90% symbolic and only 10% practical (I’ll now be able to vote in presidential elections), but for me, it’s important. Not least because of the long, complicated, bureaucratic and fairly invasive process I’ve been through to get this innocuous sheet of white paper informing me “Madame, you are now French.”
The process involved putting together a dossier weighing approximately two kilos (you can imagine the sort of solid proof of good citizenship one is expected to provide: right down to a hard-won letter from a northern English police station, confirming that I have never been committed of a criminal offence in the UK…), and no less than three separate interviews (at the Tribunal, Préfecture and Police Station), accompanied by FH and BB, during which we had to “prove” to a series of rather unfriendly civil servants that we have not been merely pretending to be married for the past six years.

Anyway, the République has finally given its blessing.

It’s important to me in the sense that I’ve chosen to become French, mainly because this is my home and there are many, many things that I love about this country. Adopting a nationality as a conscious decision is quite different from just inheriting it as a birthright, although this whole process has also made me reflect on the immense privilege of being born British (or into any rich European country).

But, all that is by the by. Vive la France! I have now earned the right to moan, complain and not realise quite how very lucky I am… just like all my fellow countrymen!

Bises (bis)

There’s a short P.S. to the story of the French and their kissing habits. It concerns what I call the “New Year Rush.”
Basically, on the first day back at work after January 1st, a whole load of colleagues and random professional acquaintances will take advantage of the festive occasion to do the “bise”. So, people with whom you previously had a strictly “handshake only” relationship will suddenly exclaim (come January 2nd, or 3rd, or 4th…): “Oh, but it’s the New Year! On va se faire la bise pour le nouvel an, non?!” and lunge for your cheek (“let’s have a bise to celebrate the new year!”).
Naturally, you will smile weakly and oblige.

Then, the next time this feisty colleague crosses your path, be it one, two or even three weeks later, when you innocently proffer your hand, you will be treated to a falsely ingenuous “Oh! But wait, we’re on bises terms now, aren’t we?” and your hand will be briskly rejected in favour of your reddening cheek.
And so forth for evermore.

Yep, they’re a sneaky group, the New Year kissers. As every year, 2009 promises to provide a fresh crop of new bise candidates…