Peaks and Troughs: A (Fairly) Brief Account of Christmas in the Pyrenees (Part Two)

Day 4:
I am struck down with some kind of tummy bug (of course, in French, it would be something much more serious & Latin-sounding, requiring, at the very least, suppositories…). I spend most of the day in bed, emerging only occasionally to bravely nibble on a piece of toast.
Apparently, the others are enjoying a glass of wine and the Christmas spirit. Morale: 0.

FH ventures out to get “food supplies”… and returns with six Magnums, a huge box of chocolates and a jar of Nutella. He is taking advantage of Christmas, my weakened state and the conciliatory presence of my Mum to get away with things I normally frown upon.
“Making fire is hungry work,” he informs me haughtily, when challenged.
“Right, our ancestral cavemen always had a big jar of Nutella to hand, I’m sure…” I snap (sick, but not too sick to be sarcastic).


Day 5:
Sick. Sick. Sick.
BB is no longer interested in me. I have become a boring lump under the bedclothes. He only pops in sporadically, to check if there are any half-eaten bits of toast lying around (and if so, eat them, of course).

I feel as though I have been wrapped in this same flowery duvet for half my life. Weird: could it be some sort of Christmas allergy?

By the end of the day, BB is chanting “Papa! Papa! Papa!” constantly, and looks pained if forced into my weak, sickly arms for more than a few seconds.
Children can be so harsh.


Day 6:
It snows. And snows. And snows.
The snow piles up all around us. The Twingo is smothered. FH fits the expensive chains to the tyres with notable glee.
“So… good job somebody thought to buy chains…” I say smugly.
“Yeah! Lucky we did that!” FH agrees. Saved again by his unfailing selective memory.
He is positively bubbling with excitement at the prospect of driving home tomorrow, in chains.
I, on the other hand, imagine us skidding off the road and plunging into a vast ravine, a thousand metres further down. I try to keep these thoughts mainly to myself.

In the event, of course, we get home safely.

Peaks and Troughs: A (Fairly) Brief Account of Christmas in the Pyrenees (Part One)

Day 1:
Destination: Formiguères, near Font-Romeu, Pyrenées Orientales.

After picking up my Mum at Carcassonne airport, the laden Twingo makes its weary way up the twisty mountain roads… that are surprisingly devoid of snow. We wonder when we’ll have to actually use the very expensive snow chains purchased (shrewd move by me) a day earlier. Turns out, we don’t need them. FH is heard to mutter something involving the words “chains”, “waste of money” and “over-cautious”. I purse my lips. Revenge is a dish best eaten cold, as we shall see.

Later, as we are settling into the gîte, unfolding the flowery bed linen, a big (ish) spider drops out. In a flash of panic, I stamp on it madly, crushing it to death on the spot.
Immediately, I feel bad. It was a savage, unthinking act from a normally animal-loving vegetarian.
I guess the countryside brings out that side of me.

FH makes a log fire, in that age-old tradition of male hunter-gatherers. He becomes more virile by the second. I think: it’s a shame we deprive our men of this opportunity to show their manliness 51 weeks of the year. Maybe that’s all it would take for our 21st century men to feel strong and reassured again?

Day 2:
Perfect blue sky. Mediterranean blue. The view from the gîte looks like a child’s drawing of “winter”. I start to think that being in the mountains is actually quite nice after all.
The soft pad of boots on snow is heart-warming.
Also, I am relieved to discover that the adjacent village boasts a boulangerie AND a crêperie! Somehow, the presence of these two establishments provides a sense of security. If you are confused by these sentiments, let me explain. I am the girl who, not so very long ago, was shamefully heard to plead: “Get me back to bloody civilisation!” in the course of a 2-week holiday in Martinique. I admit it: I’m a bit of a city girl at heart.

Day 3:
More blue sky. BB is being taken care of by his Nana. FH and I lie in bed in the morning and listen to the sounds of someone else making his bottle, preparing his breakfast, dealing with his impatience… and a wicked smile of contentment creeps across our faces. We are on holiday!

Regular readers will recall that BB was supposed to get chickenpox this week. We have come armed with lotions and suppositories (suppositories are good for everything in France). Every day, we scrutinize BB’s face and body for signs of the first telltale spot – but nothing appears. After all that build-up, we are slightly disconcerted by the absence of the pox. Suddenly, I think I’ve found one on his cheek! But on closer inspection, it reveals itself to be a smudge of chocolate.

Flying the Nest

Yesterday was our “much revered” office Christmas lunch. This once-a-year treat involves sitting at a long table with fifteen or so colleagues in a sort of “last supper” configuration, and being served what the firm’s canteen calls a “repas amélioré”. This literally means “improved meal”. Everyone at the firm talks about the “repas amélioré” – in fact, you’ll hear that term used far more frequently than a simple “repas de Noel”. Just to underline how special it is, I suppose.

For anyone who might have been wondering what the French like to eat for Christmas lunch, here’s a partial answer. Our “repas amélioré” consisted of stuffed pigeon. No, that’s not a typing error, it was supposed to read “stuffed pigeon”.
Now, I realise that tastes are subjective, and that not everyone is a devout lifelong vegetarian like me, but doesn’t that just beg the question “what the heck is the non-improved everyday version, then??” Grilled rat?

The canteen tries to innovate every year. No two Christmas meals are ever the same. Well, this year just takes the ticket for me. Naturally, I made do with a chunk of cheese and some bread whilst trying desperately not to glance down at the spindly little bird legs sticking out of adjoining plates.

The general consensus, from what I could gather, appeared to be that the pigeon had been tasty. Thankfully, at least, I am no longer subjected to an hour-long inquisition as to why I refuse to partake of such succulent regional delicacies during these lunches. This was my fate for the first few years, but they all know me now. They know I’m a bit “funny” when it comes to food, and they make allowances. It’s very decent of them to be so understanding.


Well, that’s all folks. I’m taking my petit parapluie (little umbrella), my snow boots and my woolly hat and heading up to the Pyrenees for the holidays. More news in a week or so, hopefully with some aesthetically snowy landscape shots.Happy Christmas to all!

Le père Noel est une ordure / Santa Sucks

I don’t think this photo requires any further comment.
How could I deprive my readers of such a brilliant specimen?!

Suffice to say, BB seems to have inherited his mother’s love of all things Christmassy…
(even Father Christmas looks rather fed up, doesn’t he?).

Private Eye

One of my secret, treasured pastimes is people-watching. Or better: benevolently eavesdropping. I do this by going into a café alone, ordering a coffee, sipping it slowly and just being non-descript. Before long, the people around me forget I’m there and carry on their conversations as freely as though they were in their own living room.

Last week, for example, I learnt all about the argument one woman had had with her husband that morning before work (he hadn’t offered to pick her up after her doctor’s appointment = he didn’t care about her = he was a mean, undeserving excuse for a man).

I watched the way the woman’s friend listened to the story of the argument, nodding her head sympathetically and sneaking a glance at her watch. I saw the friend take a little gift out of her bag and offer it to the other woman. I snuck a look at the woman’s face as she opened the gift and I saw the tiniest flicker of disappointment in her eyes just before she exclaimed how beautiful it was and launched into a grateful bise.

There is no purpose to this people-watching. And, I must stress, it’s a totally non-judgemental activity: I don’t do it to sneer at people or feel superior. Not at all. I’m just fascinated by other people, and the way they are and interact with each other. Maybe I also see something of myself in everybody else, in the details.
It’s like reality TV, only far, far better, because the people I secretly observe are just being themselves, not performing for a TV camera.

Does anyone else have a secret hobby like this?
People-watching is ultimately harmless, and, in its defence, the cost-enjoyment ratio is very favourable.

On Saturday afternoon, however, it was my turn to go to the salon de thé with a group of three girlfriends. We laughed loudly and chatted freely about everything under the sun. And I wondered at one point: is anyone listening in? Pretending to read a magazine yet secretly observing us?
But as soon as I’d wondered this, I realised that it really didn’t matter at all. Being on the “other side” is just as much fun: a spectator turned actor for a couple of hours.

Turkey’s off. Anyone fancy a chicken (pox)?

Last night, after struggling single-handedly through BB’s bathtime / mealtime / bedtime routine, I noticed that the little light on our answering machine was flashing.
Oh goody, a message.

“Bonne soirée!” sang my friend Carla’s sweet Franco-Portuguese voice. Carla had come to visit us only last Sunday, with her two year-old son Gabriel.
“Just checking how you are…” she began, “oh, and by the way, Gabriel came down with chickenpox yesterday, so I thought you should know… I mean, because he played with BB on Sunday… So, well, I guess you’ve got some chickenpox to look forward to! Anyway, joyeux Noel!”

Flustered, I went online to do a little research. It just gets better and better. Apparently, chickenpox has a two-week incubation period. So, that will take us right up to… well, fancy that, right up to the day we set off to an isolated village in the Pyrenees for Christmas week!
Then, just to round off this chain of good news, my eye fell upon the last line of the medical document I was reading: “chickenpox is one of the most contagious illnesses in existence. You don’t even have to have physical contact to catch it: just breathing the same air is usually enough!”

Poor BB. Now when I look at his smiley, innocent face, I can’t help thinking (gulp) : “you’re condemned. It’s just a matter of time.”

It’s all the fault of Christmas, if you ask me.

"It's for your own good!"

BB with short-back-and-sides. Nice and neat and spruced up for Christmas, just the way his Nana wants him! And yes, he is indeed sitting IN the food cupboard. I think his dream would be to actually turn into an item of food and eat himself…

Yesterday afternoon, it was time for BB’s regular medical check-up, with the added bonus of a double-vaccination.

If you imagine what your own reaction might be if, say, you stubbed your big toe on a doorframe, and then someone came over and deliberately bashed the aforementioned toe with a big hammer… you will be some way to appreciating BB’s attitude to these medical visits. Absolute, sheer, ear-splitting horror and indignation. It’s always a very fraught experience for all concerned, not least the poor doctor (though I’m sure he’s seen worse).

The scrunched up, indignant face starts as soon as we’re on the stairs that lead to the waiting area (BB, not the doctor). He sometimes gets distracted by the toys on offer if we have to wait a few minutes, but as soon as he hears Doc’s footsteps, all hell breaks loose.
His eyes disappear into two watery slits, his face turns purple and his tonsils become very visible (this is sometimes an advantage, when Doc wants to check his throat).
I am thus trying to jiggle BB into a state of only mild hysteria whilst making polite chit-chat with Doc, who always manages to stroke my arm, touch my shoulder and slip in at least five compliments at every visit (I think he rather likes me).
As the visit progresses, I start to perspire under the pressure of it all.

Yesterday’s visit followed this well-trodden path. By the time the needle had to go in, BB was practically convulsing. I clasped his little body to my chest while Doc plunged the needle into his back with the precision and cheeriness of an experienced grouse hunter.
I rubbed his back, made loud, soothing sounds and walked briskly around the surgery four times – as instructed – in a plea to make BB forget the terrible thing that had just happened.

Then, fully clothed again, he sat on my knee, hiccupping dolefully while I signed the cheque and Doc launched into a pleasant discussion about Britain’s refusal to join the Euro (he seems to enjoy discussions based on British-French cultural differences, during which I am expected to laugh ruefully and say something to the effect of “ah yes, Britain is a strange country!” For the sake of peace, I always oblige).

On the way home, BB, still watery-eyed and snuffly, kept shooting me hurt looks.
For him, these visits are inexplicably cruel torture sessions.
For me, they are black spots on the otherwise sunny path of our mother-son Wednesdays.

One day at least, BB will be able to understand my imploring “it’s for your own good, I promise!”. And then he’ll smile stoically, be brave and hold in the tears. Won’t he?

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...)

Walk the Line

I used to get very upset about French people’s attitude to queuing. I found them so rude, so individualistic, so…so… annoying in their refusal to acknowledge a line of patiently queuing people and tag politely onto the end of it.
But now I’m beginning to wonder whether their failure to play the queuing game may be the result of a deep cultural divide that is not so much about one nation being polite (Brits) and the other rude (French) but rather a fundamentally different (and perhaps even legitimate) perspective on the whole matter.

Let me explain.
Last week I was waiting in line to buy my ticket at the cinema. There were two tills open (this was a private cinema, after all, not the Post Office!) but only one line (in front of one of the tills): everyone had presumably decided that if people were queuing in this way, there must be a reason for it. It crossed my mind that this was a surprisingly orderly situation, but quickly gave a Gallic shrug and joined the end of the line.
However, the next person to join the queue (let’s call him a “young gentleman”) looked perplexed. He ummed, aahed, cleared his throat several times then launched a bewildered “er, does anyone know why no-one’s waiting at the other till?” at everybody in general. Most people shrugged, muttered something incomprehensible and looked vague.
“Well, I think we’re just being polite,” I offered helpfully. “There’s one line, and then people go to whichever till-”

Of course, I never got chance to finish my sentence. Once he had deduced that the people in my queue were merely weak-minded, slightly dim sheep with zero initiative, he shot off to be the first member of the new, parallel queue.
“Well!” I exclaimed… but my indignation faltered and died as half the members of my queue stampeded past me into the new queue, headed by our quick-witted young gentleman. In short, it took all of 5 seconds for a new queue to form: people who only seconds earlier had been waiting patiently suddenly woke up and saw the light. People who’d been at the end of the old queue propelled themselves into pole position in the new queue without a thought for anyone else.

I was stunned. Upset. Shaken by this mass display of cut-throat individualism.
And that’s when I thought: wait a minute, maybe I’m the fool here, not him. I mean, come on, do I have no common sense? There’s a till available and a huge open space in front of it, and all I can think is “ho hum, well, that’s not for little old me, I should just join the longest line and wait as long as possible, thank you very much (and sorry to bother you)”.
That other guy showed initiative and good on him. Maybe the French just admire that get-up-and-go mentality more than the “sorry to disturb, don’t mind me, I’ll just tag along here and be polite” approach. And why not?



(this is not true, of course. I’m just trying to be culturally open-minded for the benefit of my French readers. I secretly still think the French are just rude when it comes to queuing!).

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.

PS The photo is from Martinique, not California, but you get the idea.

Show Business

Last weekend I was lucky enough to see two shows. The first was on Friday afternoon at an esteemed crèche in a genteel area of Toulouse (average age of audience: 1.9 years).
The second was held in a café-theatre on Saturday afternoon, and entitled “Les monologues du vagin” (The Vagina Monologues, for all those who dropped French in third year and never got as far as learning the word for “vagina”). Average age of audience: 40 (all age groups represented).

There were some notable similarities between these two performances. Both relied wholly on the talents of three women, for example. In both cases, the actresses managed to convey an impressive range of emotions with only minimal props. Both made use of music, though not in quite the same way. All the actresses made savage, animal sounds at some point… but not for the same purpose. Both audiences were captivated.

Which did I prefer? Well, on Friday afternoon, I was pink-cheeked with happiness at seeing the whole-hearted fascination of BB and his comrades. On Saturday afternoon, I was pink-cheeked with embarrassment after realising that I perhaps wasn’t quite as liberal-minded as I’d thought. On Friday afternoon, my mind wandered affably at one point: isn’t this nice? Isn’t it refreshing to take a break from reality for a while, to be in a place where the roses are red, the sky is blue, and even the carrots have big smiley faces?
On Saturday afternoon, my mind wandered uneasily at one point: wouldn’t it be nice if they said something other than the V-word occasionally? Anything else, really. I’m not fussy.

Don’t get me wrong: The Vagina Monologues is funny. It made me laugh: I’m no prude (I think). But on the way home the thought crossed my mind: thank goodness it’s a high-brow, intellectual sort of play that started life in the arty theatres of New York. Otherwise… well, otherwise you might be mistaken for thinking it was just three women saying the V-word a lot.

Food Monsters: The Sequel

Here’s what happens on a deceptively peaceful Sunday morning when father and son have their hearts set on the same bowl of cereal.
The battle scenes that follow are not for the faint-hearted.

Stage 1: FH, sensing an imminent attack, fills his mouth to capacity in a last-ditch attempt to hide the booty.

Stage 2: FH makes a fatal strategic error: the bowl drops within reach of BB.

Stage 3: BB takes control of the spoon. He knows it’s almost over: FH is unlikely to recover his earlier momentum.

Stage 4: BB cries victory.