From the Mouths of Babes

1/ We're driving along, just me and him, when - entirely out of the blue - BB decides to treat me to his most comprehensive and breathtaking demonstration of bilinguilism so far.

"Maman, in English, CAR. En français, VOITURE!
In English, HOUSE. En français, MAISON!
In English, WINDOW. En français, FENETRE!"

Open-mouthed, I swing round to stare at my triumphant little BB, sitting smugly in the back seat.

I am so astounded I almost crash the voiture.

2/ FH is in the midst of a DIY frenzy. In typical FH style, though, the first few days (weeks) of the frenzy involve a good deal of ripping out and tearing away and not a whole lot of improvement.

Such is the current state of our bathroom. With no sink, no shelves, no cupboard and a lot of haphazard plaster all over the walls, no-one could really claim that the room is at its most advantageous.

Except, evidently, the son of the DIY fanatic.
Call it family loyalty, call it the innocence of the young... BB, on discovering the "new" state of his former bathroom, was heard to exclaim:
"Oh, papa! C'est TRES joli ce que tu as fait!"

Ah, if only I could find it in me to be so encouraging!

FAQ no. 1

Who knows why some days, weeks or months are so much better than others?

I have spent almost 33 years living on this planet, and I still don't get it.

I have a few tentative thoughts on the matter, a flash of inspiration here and there.
But nothing surefire and irrefutable.

Maybe it's all down to an imperceptible hormonal shift?

A sudden increase in the amount of natural light (we have had 10 days of unbroken sunshine here, albeit freezing cold sunshine...)?

A husband who welcomes us home with a hug rather than a scowl?

Or perhaps it's not so much the external stuff as the way in which we choose to position our own blinkers?
The tiniest shift in perspective and the light falls differently: on my job (a fleeting intellectual buzz), on motherhood (a privileged time to be savoured, not a challenge to be battled through on route to something else), on Toulouse (a place where the pinky morning light falls perfectly across the river as one cycles to work). And so on.

I don't know why or how these shifts happen, but I think I know that we can strive to influence them, at least a little bit.

But when I read what a wiser woman than I wrote on her blog, I knew a big part of the answer lay within:
Why can't it all just be great?
It CAN be great. It can't be perfect, but it can be great.

A Bird in the Hand is Worth...

The infringement of wildlife onto our little urban oasis continues.
After the mouse in the kitchen (last summer), this Sunday morning kicked off with... a bird in the bedroom.

OK, it was just a sparrow. But, if you're not quite 3 and a half, and just emerging from an 11-hour sleep, believe me: the sight of a sparrow hurtling towards you in the semi-darkness is pretty scary.
I know, I was there.

So, BB was frantic, LB was bemused, FH was flustered and I was trying to be mature about the whole thing. You know, to set an example (or whatever it is us mothers are supposed to do).
And the sparrow... well, he was absolutely terrified, from what we could see.

As FH tried to coax him out from under the bed of the frantic child, the bird stole its chance and made a kamikaze dive for the bedroom door.
It was at that point that I totally gave up the attempt to appear calm, and released a tragic, piercing shriek of my own.
See, I was standing right by the doorway, and so got a nice bit of "wing-lash" as birdie rocketed past.

Well, after that, FH was well and truly on his own.
I barricaded myself into the bedroom with the boys, slipping effortlessly and gratefully into "women and children first" mode.
It's amazing how a mere whiff of danger sets us right back a century or two.

A few minutes later, FH announced that our winged friend had been shown the door.
I insisted he swear on the Bible and a few precious people's heads that this was no lie, knowing FH's penchant for the "say what they want to hear" theory.
He promised.

So, it wasn't even 8.20 a.m., and we'd already experienced major drama. It was definitely going to be "one of those Sundays."

But on the upside, at least that explains the unfathomable noises we've been hearing above the boiler for the past few days.

LB, always cool in a crisis

Upward Spiral

Friday night, and I'm going out.
In the car, on the way to Sophie's house, I tap my fingers on the steering wheel and bask in the sense of freedom afforded by the darkness, the classical musical, the warmth of the heater and the prospect of the evening ahead.
All the lights are green; I buzz once in the frosty air and Sophie is down in a flash.

Now there are two of us in the car, two bottles of wine, some homemade cakes, a dab of lipstick.
We laugh about something silly that happened earlier, wonder whether I have enough petrol left to get us to Marie's flat and back. Sensibly, I pull in at the next petrol station and pump 10 euros' worth of petrol in. All I have on me is a 10-euro note: the petrol station guy is mighty impressed with the precision of my filling... and Sophie and I have a laugh about that too as we drive off.

Marie greets us with a hug; we proffer our chinking bottles of wine.
She's wearing fluffy slippers, and her new flat is cosy and elegant: we spend a good 20 minutes touring round and exclaiming over the details, though there are only 50 square metres to explore.

Marie is proud of her new corkscrew, but in the course of her bottle-opening demonstration, the cork splits and tiny splinters flutter into the very, very nice wine that is 10 years old and most probably not improved by the addition of bits of cork.
We have a real laugh about that, as we clink glasses.

The hours pass, and sometimes we are all talking at once, all laughing at once, or repeating that same anecdote from 2007 that we all know word for word... that we are embellishing as the years go by, in unspoken agreement.
We laugh about our colleagues: the usual idiosyncracies... the annoying habits that we mimic with affection after the third glass of wine.

Later, we talk about when we were children. We didn't grow up in the same country, of course, didn't watch the same TV programmes or speak the same language... but the way we feel about it all is the same, and that's all that matters.
Then it's 1.30 a.m., and we should really get home to bed.
We chatter our way to the door, chatter through the coat and glove ceremony, chatter our way down the stairs and back to the car and home.

Sophie and Marie and I have worked together, in the same unpretty office, for over seven years.
We see each other practically every working day.
If I think about it, I spend more time with them than anyone else, FH included.
We have had a couple of cross words in seven years: one or two misunderstandings and uncountable hours of conversation and laughter.

There is never a sliver of silence between us.
I never stop to censor what I say in their presence.
They know just about everything that has ever happened to me, and I'm pretty sure I know how they feel about most things.

Sophie and Marie don't know I write a blog. Somehow - through an unavoidable technicality - they got classified into the "colleagues" category in my mind, and I consciously decided not to mix blogging and colleagues.
So the chances are, they'll never read all of the above.

There is absolutely nothing extraordinary about the things we do together, or the conversations we have.
There is absolutely nothing extraordinary about our friendship, in the same way that there is nothing extraordinary about the routine of daily life.
Except that - from time to time, in a flash of lucidity and gratitude - we realise that all this so-called ordinariness may well be the rock that holds us together.

As unbelievable as it sounds, it was only last night that I finally saw what was right in front of my nose, so close I overlooked it for seven years: these are my friends. What would I do without them?

I have spent a lot of energy moaning about the fact my job doesn't provide me with the intellectual stimulation I expect.
But perhaps, in a way, I've been missing the point all along.

Mid-Meeting Musings

Yesterday, approximately two hours and ten minutes into a meeting that was scheduled to last one hour, I got to thinking. Not about professional stuff, of course (nothing so radical) but rather about time-wasting, mis-management, human nature... and then - naturally - I was a mere step away from contemplating the entire purpose of life.

As you can see, meetings tend to provide me with a real stimulus for reflection.

What I thought was: here we all are, talking about the possibility of work, debating the various ways in which we might work, reflecting on the potential obstacles that will prevent us from working... but not, of course, actually doing any work.
And then I started to do a few loose mental calculations: 9 hours wasted this week in meetings, 4 hours spent on "official" coffee breaks, roughly another 4 hours spent in "unofficial" conversation with my chatty open-space neighbour, 6 hours on lunch, 3 hours on polite conversation with visitors to the open space...

Give or take a bit, that all adds up to 26 hours, does it not?
The official working week is 35 hours. Except I only work 4 days, so in theory, I'm only working 28 hours.
And that's when it hit me.
2 hours.
That's about all the time I have left to squeeze in some actual work.

Is it any wonder I have the feeling I never actually get anything done?

OK. Next step: how to re-phrase all of the above and turn it into a professional-sounding formal request to work from home?

"Shirley?" asks my boss, suddenly. "Anything to add?"

"Oh, yes," I smile, snapping back to attention. "So, what's the actual next step? What do you actually want me to do?"

Blank, disconcerted, awkward, embarrassing.
After a brief pause, the discussion resumes.

Flying Pigs

The world is a-changing, folks.
Two years ago, a black man was elected President of the USA.
And yesterday - for the first time in history - The Firm's Special New Year Meal (a cousin of the equally renowned Christmas Meal) offered.... a vegetarian option.

OK, this radical new option was not actually on display or anything. It was merely hinted at by a lowly member of the canteen staff (a mere table wiper, if you will)... who passed on the rumour of its existence with the hesitant air of a druggie whispering the name of a dealer.

It had to be asked for. And the first waitress to whom I mentioned it responded with a look of complete and utter blankness. The second one too, actually.
But the third one nodded gravely, instructed me to wait a moment, bobbed out into the mysterious "back room" of the canteen... and reappeared minutes later with something strongly resembling a vegetarian paella.

My hands trembling, I beheld the dish of yellow rice that was placed before me.
No doubt: this was a turning point in the culinary history of south-western France.
Us vegetarians (or rather: I, vegetarian) can at long last exist alongside the eaters of pigeons, innards and fattened geese. We can approach the ordeal of the twice-yearly meat fest with serenity. We can come out of the closet! Vegetarians of France, je vous ai compris!

Frozen in Time

Our fridge was a donation from the in-laws. It came to live with us in our first rented flat in the Marais in Paris: a lone domestic appliance with only a cardboard box-cum coffee table and FH's student sofabed for company.

The years passed and the furniture clan grew slightly: eventually, there was a small oven to snuggle up to, a "real" bed (well, a futon) and a Swedish bookshelf.
The fridge wasn't pretty or special, but it did its job, survived one move, then another and another and another... with never so much as a rumble of complaint.

It has been with us for over 10 years, though it's actual age (unknown) is probably more like 20.

And now, one marriage, two kids and 10 eventful years later, the fridge is nearing the end. Though it bravely rattles on - stoically cooling the dozens of yoghurts and family-size packs of child-friendly cheese spread we stuff into it week after week - it is starting to show its age.
Were it a human, it would be wheezing and spluttering and crawling into bed for a nap.

Touchingly, it is only now that the end is near and its performance waning that we have started to actually notice it. Oh the injustice of life! Years and years of silent service without so much as a second glance... and yet now, as it struggles towards its last breath, we finally stop, take a look, poke around inside a little.

And the inevitable decision is made: our old fridge must be replaced.
Such is the unforgiving nature of life. Though - if it's any consolation, dear fridge - you should know that, had you fallen into any other household, you would probably have been replaced years ago. In a way, you got lucky.
You fell into the hands of a couple whose materialism thrives in the form of clothes and footwear... but ceases to exist completely when it comes to domestic appliances.

In fact, the mere burden of selecting and acquiring a new fridge tires us. After a few timely clicks on the laptop, FH announces he's found a suitor, and asks if I want to see it.
I don't.
Just order it, I mumble from behind my novel. Domestic appliances, like car problems and certain Swedish furniture stores, are my own personal hell. A sort of quagmire of boredom, the simple prospect of which makes me snappy and irritated.

But, while FH sighs and does the necessary, I do have a passing, tender thought for you, dear old fridge.
I think: you served us well, though you weren't flashy or modern or pretty by anyone's standards. You are part of a different era: you belong to a young, penniless couple setting up home together, an idealistic man and woman who didn't think twice about plonking an upside-down cardboard box in the middle of their living room, and calling it a coffee table.
They just don't make 'em like you anymore. And in a funny sort of way, I'll miss you.

With or Without You

Prior warning to more romantically minded readers, in case there is any confusion: this really is a positive post overall.


It's a funny old thing marriage, isn't it?
Or perhaps - less funnily - it's just my marriage??

Here I was thinking, "great, FH is off to Paris for 2 days: a break!"
Those of you who don't know FH so well may well raise an innocent eyebrow at this point and inquire candidly "a break from what?"
I shall demur and reply simply: "a break from those little foibles and idiosyncracies that are part of every individual's character... and which may occasionnally seem unbearable when one is over-exposed to them".

In a nutshell: 2 days without lost keys, misplaced objects, DIY experiments gone awry, gormless looks of utter incomprehension when confronted with simple questions, diverse opinions regarding the nature and timing of children's bedtime, empty yoghurt pots down the side of the sofa, etc, etc (yes, I know it sounds mean... but whose husband is perfect?!).

2 days during which I will be the Boss*

And yet, and yet. As is always the way, just a few hours into our short separation, the usual, baffling scenario has played out: I miss him.

The cynical may retort: you just miss the extra help!
Perhaps. But personnally I have long suspected that it was Bono who hit the nail on the head**.


*Although the other two remaining members of the household may not quite have grasped this.

** We finally walked down the aisle together - 8 years ago - to the sweet sound of U2's "Beautiful Day". Even I - though something of a realist in matters of the heart - could not quite bring myself to suggest we get married to "With or Without You"

11 Commandments for 2011

1/ I will be a fervent defender of my precious free time. I will make time for those people who truly inspire me, and forget the others.


2/ I will not live my life according to a sense of obligation.


3/ I will travel as much as I can; I will cover kilometres and kilometres and make unreasonable journeys in order to spend a few hours with the people I care about most.


4/ I will know when to take time out: I will greet my solitude like an old friend.


5/ I will read The Economist every week, to keep my brain ticking over.


6/ I will read at least two novels every month, because escapism is a necessity, not a luxury.


7/ I will continue to write - even if I only write one page a month.


8/ I will not be brought down to earth by those who fly the flag of reality... as though amazement and day-dreaming were reserved for the under-5s.


9/ I will not RUSH. If I arrive at work half an hour later than everyone else, SO BE IT!


10/ I will not compare myself to other mothers. Especially not unfavourably.


11/ I will be imperfect. Because, even if I fail at all of the above (see points 1 - 10), no doubt the universe will continue to unfold as it should...

Resolute

BB and me, on a train to Paris / A bus-ride through a slushy city / BB's trusting hand in mine as we clomp down to the metro / The bravery of my big boy, who never once asks to be carried / A hot bath in the hotel / Nana's arrival / A half-bottle of wine and some Marks & Spencer salads / BB and his colouring books, beautiful and neat / Christmas day, snow in Paris / Three generations in the back of a cab / A random Christmas lunch of chips and wine, a shiver of pleasure, the unexpected rightness of the untraditional Christmas traditions we are making up as we go along / Another train, to La Rochelle / FH and LB, on the platform / A reunion, a bridge, a house, "our" Ile de Ré / The ocean, vast, grey, vibrant, alive / Coffee, and wine, lots of wine / Ferrero Rocher and card games / Reading in silence / Biting cold air on an almost deserted beach / A strengthening of the core as vitality returns / A place, an anchor / FH and me, on a train to Paris / The last night of the year / A barge, Notre Dame, the Seine, the Eiffel Tower, friends, surprise, heat, a glow / Dancing, dancing, dancing / A touch, a look, a smile / 6 am in St Germain des Près / New shoes and cold hands / Coffee, croissant, train, sleep / Happy


Each little memory poured into the void: the listlessness is crushed and dispelled.

Some photos to follow, and perhaps some resolutions, too.

HAPPY NEW YEAR 2011
Moment by moment