You may have heard that yesterday was a day of national striking and protest in France. It is not my job to go into the whys and justifications… but suffice to say that after a lot of consideration, I decided not to strike. I was torn between my French desire to march through the streets demanding social justice… and my British cynicism about the whole thing (what’s the point?).
But that didn’t stop me feeling uncomfortable and slightly guilty all afternoon.
FH, however, was out marching, so as a family we notched up a 50% turnout, which is not too bad.
Yesterday evening, he came home buoyed up with excitement and (metaphorically) swaying about from his lofty position on the moral high ground. Hum.
I think if there’d been any royalty in sight, he’d have bagged front row seats for the head-chopping…
I was starting to feel quite shamed, when – unfortunately for him – FH let slip that he and a bunch of colleagues had “stopped off for a beer in the sun” during the protest march.
As you can imagine, a certain amount of teasing ensued.
For quite a number of hours.
FH’s smile started to wane, his courageous, revolutionary veneer slipping under pressure.
OK, he conceded finally (without actually admitting that he just might not have gone protesting had it not been a beautiful sunny afternoon…), but whatever you do, DO NOT mention the beer on the blog!
Ahh… that unique combination of revolution and art de vivre… so French!
I love it.
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