Strike Out

It's strike season again at The Firm.

Usually, around the time pay rises get negotiated - and refused - people get itchy feet, and after a few days of bubbling tension, the unions call us out on strike.

But the situation is even more fraught and bitter this year - people are (rightly) upset about a lot of issues that seem boringly yet soul-destroyingly common: outsourcing to low-cost countries, harrassment, pressure to perform with no financial reward, the domination of Profits with a capital P over anything vaguely people-oriented.

We have been asked to strike tomorrow, all day. This means losing a full day's pay, of course.
And a full day's pay is a considerable amount of money when you only work three days a week.
Which is a somewhat cowardly way of explaing that I have decided not to strike.
I'm not comfortable with this decision, which is basically a selfish one, but then, there are always so many different elements to be tipped into the balance and weighed up, and this time, I suppose that short-term self-interest won through.

But, at the risk of sounding rather hypocritical, I do support the French striking mentality, which is such a source of mockery to outsiders.
I even supported the anti-privatisation rail strikers two weeks ago, stoically nodding my agreement even as a couple of them flung themselves onto the track at Toulouse station and forced me to live through a version of every parent's nightmare: being stuck on a crowded, un-moving train for three hours with two small kids.

I think it's good to protest. I think it's essential not to take everything lying down: it probably makes no difference at all to the final outcome, but the alternative is surely worse.
Complete submission with not even a whimper of complaint.

I suppose if I was a little braver, I would stick my neck out a little more.
But today, the need to pay for the house, the food, the holidays, the footballs, etc. seems more important than fighting the good fight against Capitalism.

But I'm still very grateful to those who will put themselves on the front line tomorrow.

PS If you have the troubling sense that this post is full of contradictions: this is not because you have mis-read something. It is indeed - unashamedly, humanly - packed with them.
Such is my state of mind. Such is life.

Bittersweet Symphony

One of the first "real-life" French sentences that sticks in my mind is "Au fond avec les valises!"
It was 1995 or thereabouts, and I had travelled with a girlfriend to the south of France: we were going to squat with her uncle and aunt, who had retired out there.
Now imagine that sentence being yelled at you by a fistfull of irate French people on an overcrowded bus.
My friend and I were struggling to travel through Nice on public transport, having just emerged from the airport feeling slightly dazzled by the heat, the language and the foreign-ness.
We were 17, we didn't have a clue why all the other passengers were yelling and gesticulating in that frantic Latin manner: we were scared.


Turns out, "au fond avec les valises!" is a rather unpolite (and decidedly un-British) way of saying "would you two girls mind terribly moving to the back of the bus with your large cases, please? That is the convention for bus travel in France, though of course we understand that you couldn't possibly know that."

Anyway, the point is: I rather feared that the six-train, four-day round trip from Toulouse to Manchester that we have just finished might well be the parental equivalent of this dubious first clash with the French language. In short, I fully expected to be subjected to countless incitations (some real, some imagined) of "au fond avec les enfants!"
I imagined that anyone unlucky enough to share breathing space with our two offspring for the duration of a long train journey might feel slightly peeved.
But in the event, and as so often, my pessimism was proved unnecessary.
Call it good fortune, call it heart-warming human nature: we only shared carriage space with highly tolerant, child-friendly individuals.
Some of them even managed a stint as temporary babysitters.
And the boys behaved beautifully. Even on the 8 hour trudge to Paris as the TGV bowed to the will of angry strikers who had elected to make their point right in front of it.

Trains aside, the in-between days were spent idling with family, and especially the two 80 year old great grannies, whose sunny nature and penchant for a good gossip and a shopping spree make them not so very different from those two wide-eyed 17 year old girls who boarded a bus in Nice.

Of course, there was the tiredness, and the language barrier, and the socialising and the panic of a certain FH who lost his wallet and ID card an hour before we were due to head home.

But there were also those exquisite three minutes, somewhere just south of Bordeaux, less than two hours from our final destination, when I escaped to the empty train bar, sipped a paper cup full of hot tea, gazed out at the vines just starting to blossom in the dusk, and listened to Bittersweet Symphony.

I thought about a very good friend of mine, and the terrible time she's going through.

I thought about how proud of us I was for making this trip. How proud of myself for sticking to my guns, not putting myself through the ordeal of a plane trip, even though it was, by most people's standards, the "sensible" thing to do.

I thought about how these few short minutes of absolute quietness, bar the music, seemed so graceful that I had to hold my breath, as though gazing at a perfect piece of art, or a spectacular view.

I think you have to cover many thousands of kilometres to appreciate a moment like that. To flirt with perfection... and no longer be afraid when a bunch of French people yell words you don't understand.

Smug

My sister, last Saturday, upon the safe arrival in England of our frazzled little family: "Wow, just think, if you'd come by plane, well, you'd never have got here!"

Me, gleeful: " Yep, I think it's safe to say that the decision to travel through two major capital cities by train was a pretty damned fine one..."

My sister, looking slightly wary: "Mmm... you're going to be smug about this for a while, aren't you?"

Me, bursting with smugness: "No, honey, you're wrong. I'm going to be smug about this for the rest of my life!"

The return treck starts tomorrow. I'll let you know how it goes.

It Never Rains But it POURS

It's the day before our mega train journey to England: a long-awaited trip to see the "folks back home".
Inevitably, therefore, Clause 1.1 of "Sod's Law" has been activated: namely, anything that can go wrong, will.

The list of problems so far looks something like this:
1/ It is day 9 of a national rail strike here. We won't know until this evening if our train to Paris will be circulating or not. And even if it is, for the past two days, strikers have been blocking the access to high speed trains at Toulouse station. Yesterday, they had to be forcibly removed by riot police... and the train set off two hours late.

2/ Thankfully, nobody can tell me "I told you so" with any credibility, because, had we decided to go by plane, things would be even worse. An erupting volcano in Iceland has brought all air traffic to a halt in nothern Europe for an indefinite period of time.
Yup, this sure is a great week for travel, folks!

3/ LB has had a fever of 40° for the past 36 hours. After rushing into work this morning on the basis of a sliver of professional conscienciousness (I couldn't just abandon all my half-finished projects and disappear for 10 days..), I finally had to cave in to the inevitable at midday and rush to creche to pick up a burning hot and doleful looking baby. He is now sleeping fitfully. Not quite sure what to do: however, a call to the doctor has confirmed the inevitable: this being half-term week, nobody is answering the phone. The doc is undoubtedly in the Pyrenees or by the sea, and hasn't left a forwarding address...

4/ No sooner back from my rescue mission to retrieve LB, creche calls to let me know that BB is "not himself". He is clingy, upset and refusing to eat. He is - in the wise words of the nursey nurse - "probably coming down with something".

5/ There have been 3 cases of chickenpox at creche in the past week. Current evidence suggests that my kids have jumped on this particular bandwaggon.

6/ Refer to points 3, 4 and 5 above to understand why not a single bag is packed, no lists have been made, and current departure preparations are stagnating at 0.


Perhaps you won't be hearing from me for a week or so. Perhaps you will.
Oh, the suspense of it all!

The Rough and Tumble

A few days ago, I read an interesting article in The Guardian that was not about the forthcoming British general election (incidentally, as far as I can tell, the words "interesting" and "general election" are a bit of an oxymoron, but that's another story).
To get back to the point, then, the article was about a 2-day life swap experiment: the parents of two girls switched places with the parents of three boys.
Aside from the funny bits, I think the point was supposed to be: girls and boys are different.

Sure, it doesn't sound so revolutionary put like that, but the point was cleverly made, and cute enough to make me read on till the end.

And, you know, it's tempting to dismiss all this clap-trap as easy sociological babble... but after you've spent a Sunday afternoon like the one I had - in the presence of five little boys, two of whom belong to me - you can't help but agree that there's a sizeable dose of truth in the clichés.


Little boys are physical beings.
They like to roll around in grass, and get dirty, and brandish swords, and fight, and kick balls around, and investigate, and prod and poke and taste and get dirtier.
They are not so into sitting around in a quiet circle and chatting.


Before I had my first baby, I really wanted to have girls. I think it's OK to admit that now, though it was hard to acknowledge at the time.
I even shed a tear or two when the sonographer first told me the shocking news that my baby would not be a girl. It wasn't so much that I didn't want a boy: it was just that I had no idea what I'd do with one.
I had always imagined me & future offspring drawing quietly together, or chatting, or trying on clothes, or indulging in quaint activities like embroidery - which is as crazy as it gets, because I don't think I've ever embroidered in my life.

I had no clue what boys did for fun. I was worried I would hate their kind of fun.

And now, nearly three years on, I love it.
I love the rough and tumble, the rolling in the grass and the dirty fingernails.
I don't even feel nostalgic for the dozens of Barbies who may well never make it out of hibernation in my Mum's garage and into the loving hands of my own children.

The article in The Guardian ends with an endearing - if slightly far-fetched - theory that "a mother gets the kids she is cut out to have".
It's a bit of a chicken-and-egg situation, but the idea is that "mums of boys" prefer the boy stuff, and mums of girls are better suited to the girl stuff.

And last Sunday, as I lay squashed and battered under a bundle of hysterical boys waving twigs, I thought that this might well be true.
Mums of boys are like tea bags: you don't know how strong we are until you fling us into a cup of boiling water (and batter us with a big stick)...

And as if further proof were needed...

... Delphine went into labour and gave birth the next day.

I told you it was a tiring morning.

The Camera Never Lies?

Delphine and I thought we had a great plan.
We took 3.5 kids (one is still on the inside - though only just...), gave them a room to play in, chucked in a vast quantity of toys, books and what might be loosely termed "creative materials", made a pot of tea, and sat down to have a chat.

Only, the morning didn't evolve as planned.

Apparently, kids don't always play together happily and autonomously.
They sometimes just get over-excited, over-heated and demand twice as much attention.

But the funny thing is... the photographic evidence of the ordeal makes them look like angels.

So, the camera being the camera, and memories being memories... I reckon that five years from now, we'll look back at these pictures and remember what a lovely, peaceful day we spent with our angelic boys.
Ah, how I love my rose-tinted glasses.

Thanks Delphine for the wonderful photos

One Man's Rich is Another Man's Poor

Driving back from the beach yesterday evening, a little voice pipes up from the back:

Maman, pourquoi elle est cassée, cette voiture?
(Maman, why is that car broken?)

I glance to the left, in search of a car with bashed bodywork or a flat tyre.
But what do I see instead?
In the lane next to us: a trendy young guy in a flashy convertible... with the roof down.

FH and I burst out laughing.
We're about to explain, when suddenly we decide the truth is boring.
So FH swivels round and tells our open-mouthed BB:
"I guess that poor man's roof got broken. And he hasn't been able to fix it."

"Ah," says BB, solemnly. "Le pauvre...".

Easter and Eggs

After a 6-month absence, and only sporadic attendance before that, we finally, tentatively, ventured back to church this morning.
Disillusioned as I often am with organised religion, and the dubious sense of "joy" on offer at most parish churches, I somehow couldn't quite face the idea of teaching BB that Easter is simply about chocolate.

So we picked a new church, shuffled in - a spoldge of noise and colour amongst the grey-haired regulars - and slunk into a pew within sneaking distance of the exit.
BB showed admirable interest in the larger-than-life candles, and fliched only slightly when the priest planted a hearty welcome kiss on his cheek.
But when the organ struck, things started to take the route they always do: dreary, joyless... fidgety.
BB began to giggle and wander; FH and I exchanged a tense look (his eyes read: "who thought this would be a good idea?"); a few disapproving tuts could be heard above the drone of prayer.
Christian goodness in all its tolerant splendour, yet again.

And then, we were saved.
A little boy, with angelic curls and an encouraging smile - a missionary sent to rescue us by a kind-hearted father - came to point us in the direction of the "children's corner".
A little playmat with books and a sprinkling of toys: a discreet corner near the back where restless children could play quietly, unjudged.

So we upped sticks and re-settled in the children's area (as, alas, we seem destined to do so much these days).
Here, fellow parents smiled and welcomed us: we could tune in and tune out at will, we were not simply a disturbance.

So what is the point of all this?
Well, this is something I asked myself as I kept half an eye on BB, half an eye on LB and half an ear on the priest's sermon (the rest of me was mulling over the "point", the "purpose", the "reason" we had even come at all).
And I think that the point is this: mass is for the most part pretty dull. If there's any spirituality there at all, you have to search for it. It's a hassle to drag two kids there, and juggle their attention spans and hunger and boredom.
But it's a pause. It's something other than buying, or packaging, or eating.
And although I'm not always sure myself what I believe, or why, or how... I need to transmit these beliefs to my kids in someway.
Even if it's only to show them: look, this is how we worship collectively. It's imperfect, and sometimes boring, but it's tradition, and it's an alternative. If we don't have this, we'll have nothing except rows and rows of chocolate eggs on supermarket shelves.
And the rest, the spirituality, the joy... well, stick with us and we'll figure it our for ourselves.

HAPPY EASTER!!

Taken For a Ride

In Defence of Trains

Because (as we know) I am a fearful flyer, I elected to travel from Toulouse to Seville the way the Good Lord intended... by train.
The round-trip involved a grand total of 9 trains and 24 hours... which may sound startling to some, but here's the honest truth: it was wonderful.
Of course, if your objective is to get from point A to point B as quickly as possible, I will concede that this journey is not the most appropriate. But if, like me, you are prepared to sit back and watch the changing landscapes crawl by and surrender to the slow passage of time, then I can only encourage you to give it a go.

Or, to put it another way (as a good friend of mine and fellow mother remarked): what mother WOULDN'T relish the prospect of 12 hours uninterrupted peace and quiet?!

So here's my empirical thesis for the defence of rail travel:

I set off from Toulouse at 6.17 a.m.: it is dark, cold and raining.
Why, whenever one embarks on a long journey, is it always dark, cold and slightly sinister?
I can only think that the Good Lord, in His role as talented film director, unfailingly ensures that the miserable backdrop is spot-on... just to make the splendid, bright arrival all the more poignant.

The second train of the morning grinds to a halt between Cebere and Port Bou - the two border towns - for the traditional change in wheel spacing to be enacted, with much clunking and banging.
This is a quaint reminder of a fargone time when Europe was divided into many different, totally independent and uncooperative countries which did not see the sense in having rail tracks of the same width.
I love it.

Likewise, as soon as we have chugged into Spain, a handful of angry-looking policemen stride aboard and demand to see our passports.
A thrill of excitement runs through me: for those of us who have never experienced a communist dictatorship first-hand, this constitutes a rather thrilling demonstration of authority.

The atmosphere shifts 180° once I board my first "Ave" (the Spanish high-speed train that will take me from Barcelona to Madrid in under 3 hours).
This top-class train with parquet flooring and a FRESH smell is rail travel at its most attractive.
In true former-budget traveller style, I had wolfed down a plastic-tasting salad at Bacelona station before boarding... so imagine my surprise and confusion when, 15 minutes into the journey, a smartly dressed steward appears offering me apéritif and a 3-course lunch. All for free (well, you know, "free" meaning included in the slightly overpriced ticket price).

And in true budget traveller style, I accept and eat it all.

So now here I am in the last "Ave", on the Madrid-Seville stretch and actually nostalgic that it's nearly over.
As I sip my complementary champagne and watch the quintessential Andalousian landscape flit past (arid fields, olive trees, brick-red earth, little white houses with arched verandas...), I feel I'd happily set up home on this train for the next 6 months.
For one thing, just imagine all the novels I'd get through!

So there you have it. With trains like these, you don't need a plane.
granted, I'm biased. But if you're even just a little bit tempted, if you can take the time... try it.
Cross the country. Soak up the view. Enjoy the ride.