Aside from the many other potential categorizations, I think that the population of France can be neatly divided into two groups: the dog lovers and the dog haters.
With all due respect to my dog-owning readers (there are at least two of you), I must hereby confess that my place is firmly in the second group.
And my feelings towards "man's best friend" have been reinforced since this morning's little incident at the boulangerie.
To set the scene: it's freezing, it's snowy, the bakery's so busy that there's a long line of people waiting out on the street for their Sunday morning baguette. BB and I join the queue.
A dog-fanatic and his THREE yapping friends join the queue right behind us.
Dogs scare BB: hence he starts to cry. Wail. Yowl.
This is not the part I'm complaining about, let me stress. I'm not so intolerant I think people shouldn't be allowed to own dogs or anything, you understand.
The plot thickens when it's our turn to step over the threshold into the bready warmth of the boulangerie.
Dog-man follows us in, even though he really should have waited for the next customer to leave, and that's how we find ourselves squashed into a too-small space: me, BB, dog-man, the three yapping dogs and about fifteen other customers.
The dogs go crazy, yapping around BB's feet, which promptly sends my boy hysterical.
This is the point at which my legitimate grumble begins: see, dog-man does absolutely nothing. Surely he can see that my kid is scared, right? Surely he has noticed that every other customer in there is staring at my wailing child?
Because he continues to stare wonderously at his three furry friends, totally ignoring us, I blurt out: "Look, would you mind moving your dogs away from my son, please?"
I required nothing more than a contrite "oh sorry, of course, yes, I see now that he looks terrified", but in the event, all I get is a black look and an indignant "How dare you speak to me in that tone? My dogs have a right to exist you know!"
Blood boiling, I gear up for the showdown. I was willing to be reasonable, but now the words "dogs are not people, you know, for god's sake!" are just itching their way across my tongue.
I refrain, because anyway, dog-man has flounced out of the shop in a huff, three waggly bottoms in tow.
"Hum!" I exclaim haughtily, looking around for some support. You know, a sympathetic smile from the other customers, a "tut tut" or something of the sort.
Nope. Nada.
What I get is a sea of hostile faces, a few black looks and a mumbled comment that seems to include the word "intolerant".
So I slink away with my baguette under my arm and my sniffling child, and a cold wind of opposition follows me out of the shop and down the road... as dog-man re-enters to the warmth of a sympathetic crowd.
Dogs: 1
Kids: 0
Showing posts with label Grumble. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Grumble. Show all posts
Sunday, 10 January 2010
Friday, 27 November 2009
Contradiction in Terms
I bet you're fed up of hearing about my vaccination dilemma...If so, take heart in the fact you're almost certainly not as fed up as I am of thinking about it!
However, I feel like we've finally reached a decision I'm happy with: BB will be vaccinated tomorrow, on the advice of my doctor (I guess I just needed to hear it from someone whose medical opinion I respect), with the adjuvant-free vaccine.
The doctor said there was absolutely no need for him to have the adjuvant-free version, but that he would write me a special dispensation anyway, "because it's you".
I smiled gratefully, hoping to hit the right balance between coy and respectable.
Proof once again that here in the south of France, it always pays to wear a short dress when dealing with the male species...
Emerging from the physical and pyschological fog of the past 2 weeks, I am amazed and shaken at my ability to worry about an issue that really just required a quick, sensible decision. I thought I was getting better at this "pragmatism" lark, but recent events have proved otherwise.
What intrigues me most is that, though I worry intensely about certain things, I am fearless when it comes to others. The dividing factor is obvious: control.
I don't worry about anything I have a degree of control over; I go into a fit of anguish about things I can't control.
BB has a book called Am I Scary?
The first five pages of the book show various insects and slimy creatures that are "not scary", with the cheery incitation "Touch me, I'm not scary!"
But, just when you're feeling quite brave, out of the last page pops a big hairy spider, who cackles "I AM scary!"
If I apply this very intellectually profound approach to myself, then, what do I find?
Giving birth: not scary
Driving alone to Bordeaux with a 4-week old baby: not scary
Travelling through Siciliy on my own at 18: not scary
Moving alone to a foreign country at 22: not scary
Being a passenger on a plane: SCARY
Trusting someone I don't know to vaccinate my son: SCARY
I tell you, it all comes down to control. And trust.
And the fact that I must have a huge ego if I presume that anything I have control over will work out just fine...
I think that's more than enough physchological insight for one post.
If you've got this far, thank you for listening.
Now that that's out of my system, I'm hoping I'll be able to crawl back into the land of the living and start to appreciate the present again.
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
Horrible Day: Flu Jabs
As the title says, this has been a horrible day. And we're only mid-way through the afternoon.
I am fully aware that the fact it has been horrible is 95% my own fault (stress, anxiety, etc.), but come on: you'd need to be a steely, unemotional, no-nonsense optimist NOT to be affected by all the scary hype being spouted about this vaccine.
As you may have gathered, none of the above adjectives really apply to me.
Have you ever been completely drained of energy before you've even begun the day?
I woke up (early) this morning feeling sick to my stomach with worry. My head throbbed so much that by the time we reached the gymnasium-cum-vaccine surgery, I felt pretty much like I already had the dreaded flu.
Then, of course, the predictable chaos took over (nice oxymoron?).
Lines of people, crying babies, confusion, no ticket system, queue jumping, wailing, more confusion...
Despite my heartfelt pleas, the consultant doctor refused point blank to let BB have the adjuvant-free vaccine. Because he's 27 months, and the "rule" says only kids under 24 months are entitled to the so-called less risky vaccine.
3 little months and no negotiation. My heart caught in my throat, and - however much I know and understand that a rule is a rule and the risk is minimal - I felt I could easily lunge for the doctor and wring her neck.
Sorry if that shocks you, but it's the truth. Nothing brings out savagery quite like the maternal urge to protect your child from harm, I find (however minimal the potential harm may be).
So in the end, only FH and I got the shot.
I seriously considered faking the doctor's signature and taking BB to the adjuvant-free stand where the lucky under-2s were being vaccinated... but at the last second, something stopped me. However much my head was raging, this seemed like going too far.
I still don't know if my decision not to simply lie and fake a signature was a/ sensible, or b/ cowardly.
Now I have to take BB to see our family doctor and ask for an "official" note saying he must have the adjuvant-free vaccine "for medical reasons" (or something equally vague).
This is the course of action that was recommended to me by the on-duty nurse, in a sort of conspiratorial, "there's-the-rule-then-there's-the-way-round-the rule" voice.
That's France for you.
I hate this whole thing more and more. I hate the manipulation, I hate the hype, I hate the fact you have to be sneaky and beg. I hate the fact that our health seems to have been turned into some random lottery with hazy rules that have to be guessed at.
And most of all, I hate that, despite my better judgement, we're a part of it.
I am fully aware that the fact it has been horrible is 95% my own fault (stress, anxiety, etc.), but come on: you'd need to be a steely, unemotional, no-nonsense optimist NOT to be affected by all the scary hype being spouted about this vaccine.
As you may have gathered, none of the above adjectives really apply to me.
Have you ever been completely drained of energy before you've even begun the day?
I woke up (early) this morning feeling sick to my stomach with worry. My head throbbed so much that by the time we reached the gymnasium-cum-vaccine surgery, I felt pretty much like I already had the dreaded flu.
Then, of course, the predictable chaos took over (nice oxymoron?).
Lines of people, crying babies, confusion, no ticket system, queue jumping, wailing, more confusion...
Despite my heartfelt pleas, the consultant doctor refused point blank to let BB have the adjuvant-free vaccine. Because he's 27 months, and the "rule" says only kids under 24 months are entitled to the so-called less risky vaccine.
3 little months and no negotiation. My heart caught in my throat, and - however much I know and understand that a rule is a rule and the risk is minimal - I felt I could easily lunge for the doctor and wring her neck.
Sorry if that shocks you, but it's the truth. Nothing brings out savagery quite like the maternal urge to protect your child from harm, I find (however minimal the potential harm may be).
So in the end, only FH and I got the shot.
I seriously considered faking the doctor's signature and taking BB to the adjuvant-free stand where the lucky under-2s were being vaccinated... but at the last second, something stopped me. However much my head was raging, this seemed like going too far.
I still don't know if my decision not to simply lie and fake a signature was a/ sensible, or b/ cowardly.
Now I have to take BB to see our family doctor and ask for an "official" note saying he must have the adjuvant-free vaccine "for medical reasons" (or something equally vague).
This is the course of action that was recommended to me by the on-duty nurse, in a sort of conspiratorial, "there's-the-rule-then-there's-the-way-round-the rule" voice.
That's France for you.
I hate this whole thing more and more. I hate the manipulation, I hate the hype, I hate the fact you have to be sneaky and beg. I hate the fact that our health seems to have been turned into some random lottery with hazy rules that have to be guessed at.
And most of all, I hate that, despite my better judgement, we're a part of it.
Wednesday, 16 September 2009
Silence Is Golden
OK, I wasn’t going to write about this, but now that I have notched up a grand total of FIVE incidents in the past three days, I feel sufficiently annoyed to do so.
The phenomenon I’m experiencing at the moment can be succinctly described as “interfering”.
No less than five different women (yes, I’m sorry to say, this phenomenon seems to be exclusively female) have stopped me, at different times, to make some kind of interfering, judgemental comment concerning one of my kids.
The first time this happened, I was so surprised I forgot to react.
The second time, I muttered a response, too late.
The third and fourth times, I responded scathingly.
And the fifth time… Boy, by the fifth time… that little old lady is probably still regretting she opened her mouth.
I won’t bore you with a full account of the trials a young mother must face on a daily basis, so here are just a couple of examples:
- I’m chatting to another mum at the pool, one eye on BB who is playing nearby, when a random mother strides over and, hovering over me in all her bikini-clad glory, informs me: “Just thought you might like to know, your child is over there” (“over there” sounds like she means in another town, rather than fifteen metres away) “Be careful: you chat away, you chat away… and in the end, the kid gets lost!”
- Two oldish ladies stop to admire LB in his pram. At first I smile, basking (as one does), in the reflected glory of my cute offspring. Then, out of the blue, one of them tuts and says “Are you sure he isn’t a bit cold though?” The other one jumps in with “Oh yes, oh dear, he must be cold dressed like that!”
You will be pleased to know that this is the fifth incident. I am prepared.
“No, he’s not cold, he’s fine!” I snap. “He told me so,” I add, just for good measure.
It has to be said, people here tend to wrap their babies up like Eskimos, even in a heatwave.
What is it with all this interfering?? Do I not look like a competent mother? I wouldn’t dream of commenting on another mother’s choices, unless say, her kid was in the process of drowning or something (in which case, I would save the kid, not go and tell the mother that she was neglectful…).
Honestly, it really is hard being a young, serene mum these days.
After all these emotional mini-dramas, I feel I deserve a new dress or something…
Monday, 20 July 2009
Reality Bites
I'll presume you already know about our car park / unwelcome night visitors situation, so I won't go into it all again.
The lastest update is quite a depressing reflection on the cowardliness of human nature.
For the past few nights, FH has been putting a heavy bollard in place to block the entrance to the car park, and hopefully deter our night visitors and their clients (he also gets up early every morning to move it again so the people who use the car park in the day can get in OK).
You would think this was a good thing, yes? A community-minded initiative that our neighbours (the legitimate ones, like us) would approve of?
Think again. Unbelieveable as it seems, our next door neighbour told FH: "You shouldn't really put that bollard there. What if the people who use the car park at night end up banging their cars into it when they try to turn in? They could lodge a complaint..."
Yes, what you have just read is true. Our neighbour is actually concerned about the cars of the poor sad old men who are using the car park to do their sordid business with the under-age prostitute they have picked up.
To whom might these men "complain", I wondered, seething, when FH reported the story???
But perhaps it is us who are on the wrong track. What we should really be doing is putting up a helpful sign with - hey why not - a flashing arrow to help them find their way into the car park!
Or - even better - maybe we should set up a free bar and offer them a complementary drink, just to make it all a bit nicer for them?!
Who was it said that all it takes for bad men to succeed is for good men to do nothing (or something to that effect)?
Case in point.
The lastest update is quite a depressing reflection on the cowardliness of human nature.
For the past few nights, FH has been putting a heavy bollard in place to block the entrance to the car park, and hopefully deter our night visitors and their clients (he also gets up early every morning to move it again so the people who use the car park in the day can get in OK).
You would think this was a good thing, yes? A community-minded initiative that our neighbours (the legitimate ones, like us) would approve of?
Think again. Unbelieveable as it seems, our next door neighbour told FH: "You shouldn't really put that bollard there. What if the people who use the car park at night end up banging their cars into it when they try to turn in? They could lodge a complaint..."
Yes, what you have just read is true. Our neighbour is actually concerned about the cars of the poor sad old men who are using the car park to do their sordid business with the under-age prostitute they have picked up.
To whom might these men "complain", I wondered, seething, when FH reported the story???
But perhaps it is us who are on the wrong track. What we should really be doing is putting up a helpful sign with - hey why not - a flashing arrow to help them find their way into the car park!
Or - even better - maybe we should set up a free bar and offer them a complementary drink, just to make it all a bit nicer for them?!
Who was it said that all it takes for bad men to succeed is for good men to do nothing (or something to that effect)?
Case in point.
Tuesday, 7 July 2009
Night Visitors: Update
Just a quick update for all of you who sent such kind messages of empathy.
And thank you Pascale for the "big spotlight" idea - it's a very good one! We will endeavour to have the aforementioned light bought and paid for by the private company who owns the car park, but it could well be a long, hard battle to convince them to shell out a bit of money... Hum.
Maybe I didn't mention that the car park is actually owned by a private company, and is used by the company's employees during the day?
Anyway, a letter which may be qualified as "subtlely threatening", composed by FH and posted by me, has been addressed to them this morning...
And last night, FH had a simple yet brilliant idea (along the lines of the bright light, but less costly):
he printed up a few official-looking notices saying "WARNING: You are being filmed by infrared security cameras" and pinned them up in strategic spots around the car park.
As far as we could tell, there was no activity last night, but then again, it was only Monday, which might well be their night off...?
All other inspired ideas are very welcome!
And thank you Pascale for the "big spotlight" idea - it's a very good one! We will endeavour to have the aforementioned light bought and paid for by the private company who owns the car park, but it could well be a long, hard battle to convince them to shell out a bit of money... Hum.
Maybe I didn't mention that the car park is actually owned by a private company, and is used by the company's employees during the day?
Anyway, a letter which may be qualified as "subtlely threatening", composed by FH and posted by me, has been addressed to them this morning...
And last night, FH had a simple yet brilliant idea (along the lines of the bright light, but less costly):
he printed up a few official-looking notices saying "WARNING: You are being filmed by infrared security cameras" and pinned them up in strategic spots around the car park.
As far as we could tell, there was no activity last night, but then again, it was only Monday, which might well be their night off...?
All other inspired ideas are very welcome!
Monday, 6 July 2009
Sordid Stories On Our Doorstep
Because life is filled with bittersweet irony, today's post is in stark contrast to yesterday's.
This is about as far from innocence and childhood as it's possible to get.
Last night I made my first ever call to the police to report "an incident". The incident in question was taking place right across the street from where we live: on a car park that is not closed at night and no longer has a working security camera.
In the last few days we have realised that, after dark, this car park has become the new "free of charge" hotel room for prostitutes and their "clients". They park their cars, do their sordid stuff and drive off, leaving their horrible rubbish behind them.
Naturally, this makes us very, very upset.
I'm not so naive as to think this kind of stuff doesn't happen, but is it too much to ask that it doesn't happen on my very own doorstep, just metres away from where my son is sleeping?
Anyway, back to the police.
Their reaction to my phonecall can be neatly summed up in the phrase "couldn't care less", and that's putting it nicely. I think this actually made my blood boil more than the presence of the perverts across the road. A weary police officer mumbled something about maybe sending a police car over to take a look "if they had time and if a car was available". Naturally, no-one bothered to come and take a look.
I am shocked by this. Sure, my experience of the police is limited to soap operas and the one time I got stopped and fined by no less than 8 policemen for going through an orange light (seems they DID have men available that day, surprisingly....), but I was under the impression that they were supposed to tackle crime and protect law-abiding citizens?
Appears I am naive in more ways than one.
Anyway, today we have endured a twenty minute queue at the police station, to lodge a complaint, only to be told that the officer responsible for this type of complaint was on his lunch break, and that we would have to phone later and make an appointment.
I am a very impulsive person (actually, that's not true: I am a mostly level-headed person, but when something happens that makes me flip over to emotive mode, I'm gone, and it's virtually impossible for me to switch back to "nice reasonable person") and I fear that last night, had FH not physically restrained me, I would have gone and confronted those people myself.
I suppose FH was right to stop me.
But who exactly is going to defend us if the police don't care?
And is it possible to ignore the fact that this kind of thing is happening right under your nose?
If you've got this far, thanks for reading.
Unfortunately, there's no conclusion and no happy ending for the moment... Just the prospect of a battle to be fought and a furious, hormonal mother on the warpath...
This is about as far from innocence and childhood as it's possible to get.
Last night I made my first ever call to the police to report "an incident". The incident in question was taking place right across the street from where we live: on a car park that is not closed at night and no longer has a working security camera.
In the last few days we have realised that, after dark, this car park has become the new "free of charge" hotel room for prostitutes and their "clients". They park their cars, do their sordid stuff and drive off, leaving their horrible rubbish behind them.
Naturally, this makes us very, very upset.
I'm not so naive as to think this kind of stuff doesn't happen, but is it too much to ask that it doesn't happen on my very own doorstep, just metres away from where my son is sleeping?
Anyway, back to the police.
Their reaction to my phonecall can be neatly summed up in the phrase "couldn't care less", and that's putting it nicely. I think this actually made my blood boil more than the presence of the perverts across the road. A weary police officer mumbled something about maybe sending a police car over to take a look "if they had time and if a car was available". Naturally, no-one bothered to come and take a look.
I am shocked by this. Sure, my experience of the police is limited to soap operas and the one time I got stopped and fined by no less than 8 policemen for going through an orange light (seems they DID have men available that day, surprisingly....), but I was under the impression that they were supposed to tackle crime and protect law-abiding citizens?
Appears I am naive in more ways than one.
Anyway, today we have endured a twenty minute queue at the police station, to lodge a complaint, only to be told that the officer responsible for this type of complaint was on his lunch break, and that we would have to phone later and make an appointment.
I am a very impulsive person (actually, that's not true: I am a mostly level-headed person, but when something happens that makes me flip over to emotive mode, I'm gone, and it's virtually impossible for me to switch back to "nice reasonable person") and I fear that last night, had FH not physically restrained me, I would have gone and confronted those people myself.
I suppose FH was right to stop me.
But who exactly is going to defend us if the police don't care?
And is it possible to ignore the fact that this kind of thing is happening right under your nose?
If you've got this far, thanks for reading.
Unfortunately, there's no conclusion and no happy ending for the moment... Just the prospect of a battle to be fought and a furious, hormonal mother on the warpath...
Monday, 25 May 2009
Freak of Nature
There are some things in life that one must accept with a wry smile and a stiff upper lip... or else become very bitter.
Like, for example, say you spent three months looking for a new car, found one and bought it for quite a lot of money, owned it proudly for all of 12 days...
... and then, one Monday evening, thanks to a freak hail storm, the aforementioned new car got pounded relentlessly for two minutes with hailstones the size of hand grenades.
Leaving dozens of dents in the roof and bonnet.
Well, if this ever happens to you, give me a call.
I'll be able to empathise.
Like, for example, say you spent three months looking for a new car, found one and bought it for quite a lot of money, owned it proudly for all of 12 days...
... and then, one Monday evening, thanks to a freak hail storm, the aforementioned new car got pounded relentlessly for two minutes with hailstones the size of hand grenades.
Leaving dozens of dents in the roof and bonnet.
Well, if this ever happens to you, give me a call.
I'll be able to empathise.
Friday, 6 February 2009
Eyes Wide Shut (brain on standby)
One of the unexpected side effects of this long period of enforced bed rest has been the chance to discover the delights of a hereto unexplored universe: daytime TV.
No, no, don’t panic: of course I don’t spend all day in front of the box (I have other more important things to do with my time, like coughing, blowing my nose, hooking up to my oxygen machine…), but, if I ever start to feel a little bored, I am tempted to switch on for an hour or so.
Indulging in a stint of daytime TV feels almost as shamefully illicit as stealing sweets or making prank phone calls, to be honest, and I always feel the need to check no-one is watching me before I flick the switch (of course no-one is watching, I am home alone. But still).
Well, I had a vague idea of what went on between the hours of 2 and 6 pm, but what I witnessed this week seems more like a deliberate parody of my idea of daytime TV.
From 2 – 3 pm, France 2 broadcasts a “no trash” talk show (“Toute une histoire…”, presented by Jean-Luc Delarue), in which three ordinary people share their story in the longest, most drawn out way imaginable… and all without ever using a word of more than two syllables, as far as I can tell.
One day’s theme was “Friendship pushed to the extreme” (a particularly downtrodden-looking guy told how he got arrested for helping an illegal immigrant cross the border, just because a friend asked him to. “But, do you ask your friends to help you in return?” asked the (falsely) incredulous Delarue. “Of course,” replied our put-upon friend. “For example, if I need bread, like, and my friend is at the bakery, well, I’ll ring him up and ask him to get me a baguette.”
Another day, the topic was “People with a talent for fortune telling.” Delarue, who seemed frighteningly hyper and borderline drunk, in my opinion, begged the guests to tell him what his future held. “Well, Mr Delarue, I foresee a very bright future for you!” the lady in question said politely. “Oh yeah?! Really?!” exclaimed Delarue, bouncing up and down excitedly. “Tell me more!”
“Er, well, I foresee a major holiday…” said the guest, faltering. Now it was Delarue’s turn to falter. “What? Is that all?” he sulked.
I quickly grasped that the show relied heavily on “suspense”. So, every time Delarue asked a particularly crusty question, he would immediately hold up his hand and exclaim “Wait! Don’t answer that yet! Let’s take a moment to let the tension settle.”
There then followed a sort of 2-minute inane filler giving a 3-year old’s version of the topic of the day.
Well, after a couple of days of this, I began to feel I’d lost rather too many brain cells already. I rooted out a book – the first that came to hand – and settled it into it with relief. Really, reading anything at all (even the sports section of the local newspaper, I bet) is considerably more edifying than this daytime TV lark.
Honestly, it almost makes you want to phone the office and beg them to take you back, oxygen machine and all…
No, no, don’t panic: of course I don’t spend all day in front of the box (I have other more important things to do with my time, like coughing, blowing my nose, hooking up to my oxygen machine…), but, if I ever start to feel a little bored, I am tempted to switch on for an hour or so.
Indulging in a stint of daytime TV feels almost as shamefully illicit as stealing sweets or making prank phone calls, to be honest, and I always feel the need to check no-one is watching me before I flick the switch (of course no-one is watching, I am home alone. But still).
Well, I had a vague idea of what went on between the hours of 2 and 6 pm, but what I witnessed this week seems more like a deliberate parody of my idea of daytime TV.
From 2 – 3 pm, France 2 broadcasts a “no trash” talk show (“Toute une histoire…”, presented by Jean-Luc Delarue), in which three ordinary people share their story in the longest, most drawn out way imaginable… and all without ever using a word of more than two syllables, as far as I can tell.
One day’s theme was “Friendship pushed to the extreme” (a particularly downtrodden-looking guy told how he got arrested for helping an illegal immigrant cross the border, just because a friend asked him to. “But, do you ask your friends to help you in return?” asked the (falsely) incredulous Delarue. “Of course,” replied our put-upon friend. “For example, if I need bread, like, and my friend is at the bakery, well, I’ll ring him up and ask him to get me a baguette.”
Another day, the topic was “People with a talent for fortune telling.” Delarue, who seemed frighteningly hyper and borderline drunk, in my opinion, begged the guests to tell him what his future held. “Well, Mr Delarue, I foresee a very bright future for you!” the lady in question said politely. “Oh yeah?! Really?!” exclaimed Delarue, bouncing up and down excitedly. “Tell me more!”
“Er, well, I foresee a major holiday…” said the guest, faltering. Now it was Delarue’s turn to falter. “What? Is that all?” he sulked.
I quickly grasped that the show relied heavily on “suspense”. So, every time Delarue asked a particularly crusty question, he would immediately hold up his hand and exclaim “Wait! Don’t answer that yet! Let’s take a moment to let the tension settle.”
There then followed a sort of 2-minute inane filler giving a 3-year old’s version of the topic of the day.
Well, after a couple of days of this, I began to feel I’d lost rather too many brain cells already. I rooted out a book – the first that came to hand – and settled it into it with relief. Really, reading anything at all (even the sports section of the local newspaper, I bet) is considerably more edifying than this daytime TV lark.
Honestly, it almost makes you want to phone the office and beg them to take you back, oxygen machine and all…
Tuesday, 9 December 2008
Seasons Grrrrrrrr-eetings!
When I walked bleary-eyed into the office this morning, I got a shock. Some bright spark has seen fit to adorn the office with gaudy strips of tinsel and chirpy “Joyeux Noel!” banners. Christmas is here, folks: oh mon dieu.
I don’t care much for tinsel. But I positively hate glittery “Joyeux Noel!” banners dragged out of cardboard boxes and hung jauntily from desks. For some reason, the jauntier they try to be, the more depressing I find them.
I know that this post will lose me some precious readers. Admitting you’re not a huge fan of Christmas seems to translate into something akin to “I shot Rudolph and ground him into mincemeat” in the ears of most cheerful, Christmas-loving folk.
Well, I’m sorry.
I do like some things about Christmas, honestly. The time off work, for example.
But I don’t like cheap, glittery decorations in offices, I don’t like paper party hats, I don’t like crackers, I don’t like office Christmas lunches with colleagues in paper party hats, I don’t like pointless plastic gifts (giving or receiving) and I don’t like TURKEY! (well, I do, but only when they’re alive and free to roam wherever they like).
I have to be strong, though. The worst is yet to come. Right about now is the time my next-door neighbour usually hangs her huge, plastic, flashing Santa head from her front door. It’s really quite public-spirited of her to decorate her own front door for the benefit of everyone else. So how come the sight of his big, smiley, flashing mouth makes me want to reach for the bottle?
Oh dear. There’s rather a lot of grumbling going on at the moment, isn’t there?
(sorry, no flashing Santa photo available yet, but stay tuned...)
I don’t care much for tinsel. But I positively hate glittery “Joyeux Noel!” banners dragged out of cardboard boxes and hung jauntily from desks. For some reason, the jauntier they try to be, the more depressing I find them.
I know that this post will lose me some precious readers. Admitting you’re not a huge fan of Christmas seems to translate into something akin to “I shot Rudolph and ground him into mincemeat” in the ears of most cheerful, Christmas-loving folk.
Well, I’m sorry.
I do like some things about Christmas, honestly. The time off work, for example.
But I don’t like cheap, glittery decorations in offices, I don’t like paper party hats, I don’t like crackers, I don’t like office Christmas lunches with colleagues in paper party hats, I don’t like pointless plastic gifts (giving or receiving) and I don’t like TURKEY! (well, I do, but only when they’re alive and free to roam wherever they like).
I have to be strong, though. The worst is yet to come. Right about now is the time my next-door neighbour usually hangs her huge, plastic, flashing Santa head from her front door. It’s really quite public-spirited of her to decorate her own front door for the benefit of everyone else. So how come the sight of his big, smiley, flashing mouth makes me want to reach for the bottle?
Oh dear. There’s rather a lot of grumbling going on at the moment, isn’t there?
(sorry, no flashing Santa photo available yet, but stay tuned...)
Thursday, 4 December 2008
California Dreamin'
Is anyone else fed up of winter already? Fed up of the biting cold, monotonous grey sky and constant, fine, hair-fizzing drizzle? Fed up of the dark nights and the eerie atmosphere of a light-deprived open space where grey-faced colleagues stare at fuzzy computer screens?
And the worst part is: it isn’t even officially winter yet. Not until December 21st can we feel legitimately cold and miserable.
If only I was a passionate skier and could look forward to a potential season of snow and thrilling sensations…
Sadly, I prefer the less high-risk pleasure of lying on warm sand with the sun caressing my bikini-clad body.
I’d rather glide through a little warm Mediterranean sea water than whiz down a white slop clad in ten layers of puffy, garish skiwear.
I’d rather eat a Greek salad than a cassoulet.
In short, winter is not for me.
So why, why, why, I ask myself, did I dare to complain about the heat in Martinique this summer? How could I have moaned and winged and longed to feel a cool breeze on my hot and bothered cheeks? What was I thinking of? I should have savoured every steaming, boiling second of it, and stocked up enough sunny hormones to get me through this horrible winter.
How wise we are after the event. How easy it is to appreciate the beauty of a moment with the benefit of six months hindsight…
But perhaps the main purpose of winter is to give us something to look forward to. Our patience and imagination are fine-tuned as we dream of a future filled with sea breezes and natural light.
And the worst part is: it isn’t even officially winter yet. Not until December 21st can we feel legitimately cold and miserable.
If only I was a passionate skier and could look forward to a potential season of snow and thrilling sensations…
Sadly, I prefer the less high-risk pleasure of lying on warm sand with the sun caressing my bikini-clad body.
I’d rather glide through a little warm Mediterranean sea water than whiz down a white slop clad in ten layers of puffy, garish skiwear.
I’d rather eat a Greek salad than a cassoulet.
In short, winter is not for me.
So why, why, why, I ask myself, did I dare to complain about the heat in Martinique this summer? How could I have moaned and winged and longed to feel a cool breeze on my hot and bothered cheeks? What was I thinking of? I should have savoured every steaming, boiling second of it, and stocked up enough sunny hormones to get me through this horrible winter.
How wise we are after the event. How easy it is to appreciate the beauty of a moment with the benefit of six months hindsight…
But perhaps the main purpose of winter is to give us something to look forward to. Our patience and imagination are fine-tuned as we dream of a future filled with sea breezes and natural light.
PS The photo is from Martinique, not California, but you get the idea.
Friday, 21 November 2008
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!
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