For the past thirty years or so, my department has subcontracted the work it can't do in-house to a handful of local, independent translators (do I need to point out that I wasn't personally involved in this for the first 24 years?).
Or, to paint a more vivid image: most of our subcontractors have been working with my department since the day I was born.
And now, in 2010, globalisation has struck. It has struck - more precisely - in the obsession, among the faceless directors who live and breathe and dictate from up there in the murky echelons of power, with cost-cutting.
In the name of cost-cutting, we were instructed to issue a new Call for Tender. In the name of cost-cutting, we were forced - I mean encouraged - to shortlist dozens of super-duper multinational companies who promised to "do it all" for less.
In the name of cost-cutting, we were obliged to fight to keep our local freelancers on the shortlist.
And then, lo and behold, we were consulted. Instructed to assess the quality of each shortlisted candidate, we issued a test and reported on the competency of each.
The results were radical.
The sample documents submitted by all the cheap, so-called major companies were sloppy, badly written and littered with avoidable mistakes.
The documents submitted by our local subcontractors were of irreproachable quality.
So, we duly made out our reports and gave our marks out of ten.
And, when the powers-that-be had considered our reports... they decided that the cheapest firms should make it on to the short-shortlist.
At the end of 2010, this kind of thinking passes for "progress".
It seems poignant to me that, the bigger the notion of Quality becomes (it has its own department now, of course, plus a staff of hundreds...), the less of the stuff there is around.
Or, to put it another way: can anyone explain to me how someone intelligent and experienced enough to end up as a senior manager at a place like The Firm can actually believe that quality should be sacrificed for the sake of a few centimes per word?
Tuesday, 30 November 2010
Sunday, 28 November 2010
Upwardly Mobile!
It doesn't seem two minutes since I was making this announcement for the first time.
And already, it's LB's turn.
My little boy took his first, second, third, fourth, fifth (etc.) steps yesterday.
And, at not quite 16 months, that really makes him something of an "early starter" in our family.
Watching him hobble across the parquet - tracking our reaction with proud eyes - I felt the familiar, exquisite joy start to bubble up inside me.
And I knew with absolute certainty that it wouldn't matter how many kids you had: the spectacle of this first time would never be any the less moving.
Get an eyeful of that movement!
In between the walks... a little office work
And already, it's LB's turn.
My little boy took his first, second, third, fourth, fifth (etc.) steps yesterday.
And, at not quite 16 months, that really makes him something of an "early starter" in our family.
Watching him hobble across the parquet - tracking our reaction with proud eyes - I felt the familiar, exquisite joy start to bubble up inside me.
And I knew with absolute certainty that it wouldn't matter how many kids you had: the spectacle of this first time would never be any the less moving.
Get an eyeful of that movement!
In between the walks... a little office workFriday, 26 November 2010
A Parcel in the Post
When the package finally arrived in the post, we already knew what treasures it would contain.
Among other delights... here at last was the new Peppa Pig DVD, direct from England, thanks to Nana and her clever detective work in the long aisles of the local Asda.
As I tugged at the corners of the padded envelope, BB bounced up and down in sheer excitement, his cheeks aglow, his arms a-flapping.
Maman was not quick enough (her clumsy fingers fumbling with the sellotape): the anticipation became almost unbearable.
When at last the new DVD emerged, in its crisp cellophane cover, BB danced around the kitchen in delight.
Could we watch it right away? Right now, now, now?? Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeease?
Of course we could.
It was 6.30 p.m., there were meals to be prepared, baths to run, bodies to be rubbed, dried, fed and bedded.
But the excitement was irresistable. The other programme - the sensible bedtime routine - had to be put on hold.
And as I looked at his shining eyes, his little body tense with anticipation, his 3 year-old knees tightly pressed together as he sat, mesmerised and grateful for the immediacy of his treat... I thought "this is the thing we should be able to bottle up and keep forever." The joy, the enthusiasm, the excitement of childhood.
I want his entire life to be sprinkled with days that give cause to jump up and down with joy.
I don't want him to become cynical... or touched by that ambivalence that I can already detect in some children his age.
For a few minutes, I thought: forget intelligence, qualifications, money and all the rest. If I only had time to foster one thing it would be this: an appreciation of and an ability to express simple joy.
Tuesday, 23 November 2010
The Naughty Chair
The new HR manager barely glanced up from his screen as I walked in and introduced myself. I'd made an appointment to see him 10 days ago. The new HR manager is a Very Busy Man.
"Sit down, sit down," he ushered, gesturing vaguely in the direction of a spare chair.
Obediently, I sat.
When the new HR manager had finished dispatching his very important email, he strode over and shook my hand.
Ah.
I saw that the new HR manager was about 25 years old, tops. As I took in his crisp white shirt, his brown leather shoes and his perfectly parted hair, the word that sprang to mind was "shiny".
Actually, two words sprang to mind in very quick succession: "shiny" and "corporate".
He smiled. I smiled.
"Young man," I thought to myself, beaming with inner relish, "I will eat you up for lunch."
The new HR manager asked where I was from (though he knew perfectly well), studiously complimented me on my perfect French, then attempted a few words in English, to demonstrate his... fluency.
I smiled indulgently.
Then he signed the contract amendment for me, and strode off to the photocopier (out in the corridor) to scan it (his shiny, corporate legs looked rather becoming as he strode off).
"So, listen: what else was it you wanted to see me about?" he boomed from the corridor. "The thing is, you'd better start telling me straight away, because I'm really really busy and I have to leave in ten minutes."
My eyes narrowed.
I frowned.
Then, I don't know what happened. I opened my mouth and suddenly - from nowhere - my most authoritative motherly voice broke forth.
"I will wait until you come back in here," I informed him... and my voice, normally so soft and inoffensive, boomed outwards all the way to the photocopier, causing him to swing round with a start.
"When you come back in here and sit down, then I'll tell you what this meeting is about," I added.
There was a moment's silence.
One of those brief yet crucial moments of transition.
Oops, I thought.
But then, do you know what happened?
The shiny, corporate, new HR manager slunk (yes, SLUNK!) back into his office, slipped obediently into the chair opposite me... and waited meekly to be spoken to.
I cleared my throat, and spoke.
He listened, made notes, nodded, agreed, sympathised, advised... all the time maintaining such a high level of eye contact that it seemed we may have unwittingly been engaged in a "who will look away first?" stand-off.
And when ten minutes, then fifteen, passed, and I offered: "Oh, but I've kept you too long,", the poor, sweet HR manager shook his head and flapped his hand dismissively: "Oh, no, not at all. It doesn't matter if I'm late."
When I left that meeting, I had two thoughts. The first was: I am 32 years old now. I quite like being 32 years old.
And the second was: a lot of people reckon that taking time out (twice) to have kids equals a bit of a blank space on the CV. And that's true to some extent. But just now I realised that there are some vital skills that we pick up in the course of this parenting journey: skills that would not necessarily sit comfortably anywhere on the corporate CV, but skills nonetheless.
"Stop hitting your brother!" "Take your shoes off the table right now!" "Sit there until you've finished your green beans!"
Wow. Seeing the respect in the eyes of that 25 year old boy as he bowed to my authority was.... eye-opening.
BB, Cassis, end August 2010
"Sit down, sit down," he ushered, gesturing vaguely in the direction of a spare chair.
Obediently, I sat.
When the new HR manager had finished dispatching his very important email, he strode over and shook my hand.
Ah.
I saw that the new HR manager was about 25 years old, tops. As I took in his crisp white shirt, his brown leather shoes and his perfectly parted hair, the word that sprang to mind was "shiny".
Actually, two words sprang to mind in very quick succession: "shiny" and "corporate".
He smiled. I smiled.
"Young man," I thought to myself, beaming with inner relish, "I will eat you up for lunch."
The new HR manager asked where I was from (though he knew perfectly well), studiously complimented me on my perfect French, then attempted a few words in English, to demonstrate his... fluency.
I smiled indulgently.
Then he signed the contract amendment for me, and strode off to the photocopier (out in the corridor) to scan it (his shiny, corporate legs looked rather becoming as he strode off).
"So, listen: what else was it you wanted to see me about?" he boomed from the corridor. "The thing is, you'd better start telling me straight away, because I'm really really busy and I have to leave in ten minutes."
My eyes narrowed.
I frowned.
Then, I don't know what happened. I opened my mouth and suddenly - from nowhere - my most authoritative motherly voice broke forth.
"I will wait until you come back in here," I informed him... and my voice, normally so soft and inoffensive, boomed outwards all the way to the photocopier, causing him to swing round with a start.
"When you come back in here and sit down, then I'll tell you what this meeting is about," I added.
There was a moment's silence.
One of those brief yet crucial moments of transition.
Oops, I thought.
But then, do you know what happened?
The shiny, corporate, new HR manager slunk (yes, SLUNK!) back into his office, slipped obediently into the chair opposite me... and waited meekly to be spoken to.
I cleared my throat, and spoke.
He listened, made notes, nodded, agreed, sympathised, advised... all the time maintaining such a high level of eye contact that it seemed we may have unwittingly been engaged in a "who will look away first?" stand-off.
And when ten minutes, then fifteen, passed, and I offered: "Oh, but I've kept you too long,", the poor, sweet HR manager shook his head and flapped his hand dismissively: "Oh, no, not at all. It doesn't matter if I'm late."
When I left that meeting, I had two thoughts. The first was: I am 32 years old now. I quite like being 32 years old.
And the second was: a lot of people reckon that taking time out (twice) to have kids equals a bit of a blank space on the CV. And that's true to some extent. But just now I realised that there are some vital skills that we pick up in the course of this parenting journey: skills that would not necessarily sit comfortably anywhere on the corporate CV, but skills nonetheless.
"Stop hitting your brother!" "Take your shoes off the table right now!" "Sit there until you've finished your green beans!"
Wow. Seeing the respect in the eyes of that 25 year old boy as he bowed to my authority was.... eye-opening.
BB, Cassis, end August 2010Saturday, 20 November 2010
Saturday Night
Saturday night: a glass (or two) of wine, a few books, Internet access, two boys in bed, a husband out of the house but accounted for (with sister), SILENCE.
There may have been a time when I aspired to slightly more than this on a Saturday night. But now... Now... I have to say that this exquisite scenario actually constitutes something bordering on perfection.
There may have been a time when I aspired to slightly more than this on a Saturday night. But now... Now... I have to say that this exquisite scenario actually constitutes something bordering on perfection.
Friday, 19 November 2010
Rejected
Job Dating is the professional version of Speed Dating, which most people know about.
The latter involves a room-full of hopeful Singles and a carefully orchestrated "interview" system, in which each Hopeful has seven minutes to sell him or herself to a potential love interest.
Job Dating at The Firm is a "sparky" new concept that functions on much the same lines.
So, I was invited to one (a Job Dating session, that is).
And then, two days later, I was uninvited.
Seriously, just like that, with nothing more than a bland email informing me that I had been callously de-selected.
Wow. It's a tough old world.
To be rejected based on a lame seven-minute performance, or a bad-hair day, or an ability to nod and smile sufficiently... that, I could have coped with.
But to be rejected before the whole thing has even begun... Man, even the most hardy among us have to scoop up our egos and dust them down.
The reasons for my pre-emptive rejection are unclear (I rushed to check my CV but no, it doesn't contain my photo, so it can't be that I just failed to meet the physical criteria or something). Not that HR should involve physical criteria at all, but hey, this is 2010, the world is an unfriendly place: you never know.
Anyway, allow me to digest. And recoup.
Something tells me that, once my ego has been restored to full health, I'll probably be able to glimpse the bigger picture here.
The latter involves a room-full of hopeful Singles and a carefully orchestrated "interview" system, in which each Hopeful has seven minutes to sell him or herself to a potential love interest.
Job Dating at The Firm is a "sparky" new concept that functions on much the same lines.
So, I was invited to one (a Job Dating session, that is).
And then, two days later, I was uninvited.
Seriously, just like that, with nothing more than a bland email informing me that I had been callously de-selected.
Wow. It's a tough old world.
To be rejected based on a lame seven-minute performance, or a bad-hair day, or an ability to nod and smile sufficiently... that, I could have coped with.
But to be rejected before the whole thing has even begun... Man, even the most hardy among us have to scoop up our egos and dust them down.
The reasons for my pre-emptive rejection are unclear (I rushed to check my CV but no, it doesn't contain my photo, so it can't be that I just failed to meet the physical criteria or something). Not that HR should involve physical criteria at all, but hey, this is 2010, the world is an unfriendly place: you never know.
Anyway, allow me to digest. And recoup.
Something tells me that, once my ego has been restored to full health, I'll probably be able to glimpse the bigger picture here.
Thursday, 18 November 2010
Monday, 15 November 2010
Save the Date
November 13th sounds - at least to my prejudiced ears - like it should be one of the dreariest days of the year: gloomy, light-deprived and humid, or "winter without the good stuff".
And yet, it turned out to be just the opposite.
A bright, sunny day that would have done June 21st (or any "nice" sounding date) proud.
A day spent in the Pyrenees with a couple of friends and their children... good food, fine wine, sunshine, a breath-taking palette of Autumn leaves, a log fire when the sun went down... and BB's first afternoon nap with.... a girl!
We were oh-so-proud as we watched our offspring jump into bed, full of excitement and disbelief at the novelty of being able to sleep together.
My only question now is: at what age do you stop being delighted that your little boy is snuggling up in bed with a girl??
And yet, it turned out to be just the opposite.
A bright, sunny day that would have done June 21st (or any "nice" sounding date) proud.
A day spent in the Pyrenees with a couple of friends and their children... good food, fine wine, sunshine, a breath-taking palette of Autumn leaves, a log fire when the sun went down... and BB's first afternoon nap with.... a girl!
We were oh-so-proud as we watched our offspring jump into bed, full of excitement and disbelief at the novelty of being able to sleep together.
My only question now is: at what age do you stop being delighted that your little boy is snuggling up in bed with a girl??
Friday, 12 November 2010
Chinese Whispers
Conversations with a curious 3-year old are often either: amusing, baffling, frustrating or heart-melting (and sometimes a combination of all four).
I admit that - although I occasionally tire of the circular "but why?" conversational classic - I mostly find this age of discovery and communication fascinating.
Day after day, BB throws up comments and answers that give us a precious insight into the way his (already active) mind works... and the revelations are often totally unexpected.
Some time ago, when one of his good friends moved to Marseille, we had the "moving house" discussion, in which I explained simply and (I thought) clearly what it meant to "move".
A few weeks after C. left, BB and I even went to visit him in his new house (as part of our mother-son roadtrip).
Since then, other people he knows have also moved house, though not always outside of Toulouse.
And then yesterday, entirely out of the blue, a twist emerged.
Munching on his slice of toast and jam, BB looked up at me in consternation and asked: "Mais Maman... why is our house stuck?"
As one is rarely prepared for these sort of questions, it took me a moment to tune in.
"Mmm, what? What do you mean "stuck"?"
"Stuck!" BB insisted, flapping his arms about to emphasise that our house was incontestably right here, all around us.
"Well, you know..." (sometimes it's hard not to go round in circles), "because it is. It just is. This is - you know - where our house is."
BB nodded, unconvinced.
"Yes but... why doesn't our house move?"
Ahh! The penny dropped with a satisfying tinkle of understanding.
"You mean: why doesn't our house move?" I asked.
"Yes!" he agreed, in relief. "Why doesn't our house move, like C's house? And J's house?"
OK. I gathered my thoughts and launched into a response that I hoped was satisfying (though I would have enjoyed a slightly more attentive audience, and the opportunity to use words like "phrasal verb" and "direct object" would have been nice).
"So," I concluded with a flourish, "PEOPLE move, but HOUSES don't! Got it?"
He nodded reassuringly.
"Oui maman."
I sat back, smiling.
He munched his toast.
A moment later he looked up again:
"Mais Maman... can we move our house, please?"
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
SAD
One of the perks of possessing one's very own blog is the option of being able to Look Back.
Like a diary, the blog provides its author with an irrefutable record of the past: its events, emotions and inconsistencies.
This is not always a comfortable thing, of course.
In fact - just like diary entries from the teen years - previous blog posts can seem cringeworthy when dug up and read months or years later.
But sometimes, they provide solace.
After ruminating for a while about how to fill the figurative blank space on this blog, I dared to take a peek at the November/December entries of the past two years.
And there, something became apparent: this is not a good time of year for me.
The two year record contained within this blog (albeit a selective one) seems to demonstrate beyond any doubt that late Autumn is my hibernation period: the time of year during which, try as I might to recover some cheerfulness, I can't help but feel melancholy... and restless.
I guess that knowing this should provide comfort. It's a question of sitting tight, and letting the year slide to a close with as much serenity as I can muster.
It's a time for books, hot tea, the cinema, red wine and dreaming.
Time for the imaginary world to supplant reality.
No harm in that?
Like a diary, the blog provides its author with an irrefutable record of the past: its events, emotions and inconsistencies.
This is not always a comfortable thing, of course.
In fact - just like diary entries from the teen years - previous blog posts can seem cringeworthy when dug up and read months or years later.
But sometimes, they provide solace.
After ruminating for a while about how to fill the figurative blank space on this blog, I dared to take a peek at the November/December entries of the past two years.
And there, something became apparent: this is not a good time of year for me.
The two year record contained within this blog (albeit a selective one) seems to demonstrate beyond any doubt that late Autumn is my hibernation period: the time of year during which, try as I might to recover some cheerfulness, I can't help but feel melancholy... and restless.
I guess that knowing this should provide comfort. It's a question of sitting tight, and letting the year slide to a close with as much serenity as I can muster.
It's a time for books, hot tea, the cinema, red wine and dreaming.
Time for the imaginary world to supplant reality.
No harm in that?
Friday, 5 November 2010
In a Nutshell
Somewhere in between work, the creche run and the rather limp sandwich that constitutes lunch-on-the-go... I managed to squeeze in a 15-minute eyebrow plucking session.
Why am I telling you this?
Well, Reader: I tell you this because - believe it if you can - those 15 minutes spent lying down in blissful abandonment, occasionally wincing in pain, were some of the most agreable of the day.
15 precious minutes during which a professional person TOOK CARE OF ME, spruced me up, rubbed a little lotion onto my terse and weary skin and offered up a few cheery remarks about daily life.
Should I be pitied?
Objectively, someone who cites "eyebrow plucking session" as the highlight of their day does not scream "happy fulfilled individual!" by most people's standards.
And yet.
Perhaps the real point here is that an ability to appreciate the simple moments is an enviable talent in itself.
To turn an appointment that could easily loom as a chore into an opportunity for exquisite relaxation is a triumph of mind over matter.
And please, I am not trying to imply that the rest of my life is as dull as dishwater.
I am simply advocating that, in the never-ending cycle of childcare, duty, planning, cleaning up, wiping down, buying in and throwing out... every window of opportunity for self-improvement should be exploited to its maximum potential.
Oh, I nearly forgot.
The second highlight of the day was listening to a political interview on the car radio whilst driving back to work, eyebrows tingling...
Fifteen minutes for the body, fifteen minutes for the brain, fifteen minutes for the soul.
Could this in fact be the recipe for a modest kind of happiness?
Tuesday, 2 November 2010
Desperate Housewife
Every November, the plumber comes round to check the boiler.
After cleaning, purging, disconnecting and reconnecting a bunch of complex-looking wires, he downs a coffee, munches a biscuit and declares us OK to switch the heating on for another winter.
The scenario is always the same: he works, I make the coffee, he talks to me about cars.
But for some reason, this year is different. This year, he doesn't want to talk about cars. This year, despite the fact BB is home with me - gazing at the plumber and his array of tools with undisguised admiration - all the plumber wants to discuss is.... (how to put this politely?): extra-conjugal matters.
Entirely unprovoked, he launches into a frenetic monologue detailing his many - many - extra-conjugal adventures, and the ample opportunities that are the icing on the cake of his profession as a plumber.
While I nod and struggle to remain impassive (we're in my kitchen! We're discussing one man's sexual exploits in front of my 3-year old son!), he paints me a few pictures that may or may not be the truth... but seem to delight him all the same: women who answer the door naked except for a loosely tied bathrobe... bored housewives who grab him from behind while he kneels to bleed a radiator... The fantasies unfold before my eyes.
"Well, you know, I don't judge..." I offer unconvincingly (ten minutes earlier, we were comparing anecdotes about our respective children), whilst raising my eyebrows and nodding in the direction of BB. The point is: please curb the s*x talk in front of my kid. The message he appears to receive is: your stories are certainly making me hot under the collar.
So in confusion I take the last-resort option that is the privilege of every parent: I pretend BB needs me for something - quickly - and I leave the room.
I shuffle BB into the bathroom and force him to use the potty.
We linger as long as we can over the whole operation.
When we return to the kitchen, the randy plumber is packing up to leave, so it is with relief that I hand over the cheque and throw open the door.
"Well, see you next year!" I call brightly, thinking 'damn, we need to find a new plumber'.
"Sure, sure" he grins, toolbox in hand, "and you know - next year... maybe if you're alone..."
What? What?!
I can hardly believe the insinuation. Maybe I'm imagining it. Is he really suggesting some sleazy naked housewife scenario?
Crazy.
We close the door and I can sense BB is disappointed.
I'd promised him an exciting half hour watching a handyman at work (tools, noise, mess: a little boy's dream), and in the event, the plumber was just a boring man who talked a lot.
And to think... I actually answered the door with wet hair.
I shiver as I rush to fetch the hairdryer.
Photo of my hotel room in Rome. A plumber-free zone
After cleaning, purging, disconnecting and reconnecting a bunch of complex-looking wires, he downs a coffee, munches a biscuit and declares us OK to switch the heating on for another winter.
The scenario is always the same: he works, I make the coffee, he talks to me about cars.
But for some reason, this year is different. This year, he doesn't want to talk about cars. This year, despite the fact BB is home with me - gazing at the plumber and his array of tools with undisguised admiration - all the plumber wants to discuss is.... (how to put this politely?): extra-conjugal matters.
Entirely unprovoked, he launches into a frenetic monologue detailing his many - many - extra-conjugal adventures, and the ample opportunities that are the icing on the cake of his profession as a plumber.
While I nod and struggle to remain impassive (we're in my kitchen! We're discussing one man's sexual exploits in front of my 3-year old son!), he paints me a few pictures that may or may not be the truth... but seem to delight him all the same: women who answer the door naked except for a loosely tied bathrobe... bored housewives who grab him from behind while he kneels to bleed a radiator... The fantasies unfold before my eyes.
"Well, you know, I don't judge..." I offer unconvincingly (ten minutes earlier, we were comparing anecdotes about our respective children), whilst raising my eyebrows and nodding in the direction of BB. The point is: please curb the s*x talk in front of my kid. The message he appears to receive is: your stories are certainly making me hot under the collar.
So in confusion I take the last-resort option that is the privilege of every parent: I pretend BB needs me for something - quickly - and I leave the room.
I shuffle BB into the bathroom and force him to use the potty.
We linger as long as we can over the whole operation.
When we return to the kitchen, the randy plumber is packing up to leave, so it is with relief that I hand over the cheque and throw open the door.
"Well, see you next year!" I call brightly, thinking 'damn, we need to find a new plumber'.
"Sure, sure" he grins, toolbox in hand, "and you know - next year... maybe if you're alone..."
What? What?!
I can hardly believe the insinuation. Maybe I'm imagining it. Is he really suggesting some sleazy naked housewife scenario?
Crazy.
We close the door and I can sense BB is disappointed.
I'd promised him an exciting half hour watching a handyman at work (tools, noise, mess: a little boy's dream), and in the event, the plumber was just a boring man who talked a lot.
And to think... I actually answered the door with wet hair.
I shiver as I rush to fetch the hairdryer.
Photo of my hotel room in Rome. A plumber-free zone
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