The Secret Life of Vegetables

Once you have bitten into a real, homegrown tomato, nutured to maturity with nothing more sinister than sunshine and rain water... believe me, you will never ever look back.

It makes me wonder: at what point in time did Man get the twisted idea that it would be a good thing to produce tomatoes year-round with pesticides and other such chemical nasties?
Thereby depriving a whole generation of the sweet, succulent taste of the real thing, and fooling us into believing that the pale, hard, unnaturally spherical objects that masquerade as "tomatoes" in most supermarkets are in some way related to real vegetables??

Honestly, forget about the environment and health. Those are both great reasons to buy organic, of course, but if you're still not convinced: just buy it for the sheer taste.
I promise, you won't know what hit you.

Snapshot

Some days deserve two posts. I hope you don't mind. Tomorrow, there may be none - who knows? - so why postpone the urge to say something?

I just stumbled across a beautiful line while reading the blog of a woman I don't know.
It would be virtually impossible for her to stumble across my blog, I think (unless destiny is playing a wild card), but just in case, well, I give her all the credit.




Sometimes we read something quite randomly, and it seems to have been written just for us, left like an anonymous package in the letter box.


"Le futur est proche, mais le temps pour y arriver, une éternité."

"The future is so close, but it takes an eternity to get there."


I don't think my translation really captures the poetry of the original, I'm sorry.


This sums up how I feel today.
Time to make time. To enjoy the passage of time. To let time decide, from time to time.

A Short Glossary of French Expressions and their Real Meaning

Yesterday's post inspired me to compile this short list of frequently seen/heard French expressions... You may be familiar with some of them; however, do you really know what they actually mean??

I stress that this list is based on personal experience and years of careful observation.
It may save you a lot of hassle and malentendus...


Expression: "Vue imprenable" (= breathtaking view - literally, "impregnable view" - often seen on signposts at pretty spots around the French countryside)
Real Meaning: Quite nice view


Expression: "C'est absolument scandaleux!" (= this is absolutely scandalous!)
Real Meaning: It's a little bit annoying, actually


Expression: "Je suis totalement épuisé / crevé" (= I am totally exhausted / burst)
Real Meaning: I'm a bit tired


Expression: "Madame, votre fils souffre d'une rhinopharyngite avec angine blanche" (= Madam, your son is suffering from rhinopharyngitis and tonsillitis")
Real Meaning: Your son has a bit of a cold

NOTE: Medical expressions constitute an entire sub-category (we can't possibly go into all that here)


Expression: "Il fait un temps pourri depuis 15 jours" (= the weather has been rotten for the past 2 weeks)
Real Meaning: There was a slight drizzle this morning but it'll probably be sunny again later


Expression: "On en reparle demain, promis" (= we'll discuss it again tomorrow, I promise)
Real Meaning: We may possibly mention this again in the next few weeks, but probably not


And, my (very) personal favourite:

Expression (uttered by my gynaecologist when I was 4 months pregnant): "Madame, vous ne devez absolument pas porter du poids ni vous déplacer en voiture, sinon vous risquez un accouchement très prématuré!" (= Madam, whatever you do, DO NOT lift anything heavy whatsoever and limit your car journeys, otherwise - mark my words - you are in grave danger of a very premature birth!)
Real Meaning: Do whatever you like for the next 5 months and you'll probably still have to be induced after carrying the pregnancy to full-term


I hope this has been enlightening...
Perhaps I will share future gems with you as and when I encounter them :-)

No Time Like The Present

Ha! Bet you thought I'd had the baby, right?!
Fooled you! I'm still here. And baby is still right here. I.e. on the inside.
FH actually peers into the waiting cot every morning and quips "Oh - still not here then?"
I think it's supposed to be a little joke :-)

I promised I wouldn't write about the "event that shall not be named" any more but... well... I lied.

Just to add that it seems that this whole birth date mix-up may in fact be a cultural quiproquo...
Ah yes, even after 9 years in France, apparently I am too British, too literal, in my interpretation of a doctor's infamous words: "You will definitely give birth next week".

I have asked a few people "in the know", and - shock, horror - apparently the phrase "next week" is not to be taken literally in French! It is not a reference to time but merely a figure of speech. In other words, definitely next week ACTUALLY means "at some point in the not-too-distant future"!
Well, well.

I radically adjusted my notions of time years ago, soon after I came to live in France. For example, I quickly learned that, if you are invited to someone's house at, say, 8 p.m., this actually means 8.30 p.m. at the earliest. To arrive at 8 on the dot would be weird (and you'd probably find your hosts gardening, or showering or maybe not even there at all), and to arrive at 5 to 8 or earlier would be downright rude.

But I must have let my guard down.
I checked this interesting new time theory with FH and he confirmed: yes, "next week" does not really mean "within the next 7 days".

So now you know.
I still have things to learn about being French...
And luckily, I seem to have a lot more time to learn them than I counted on...

Domestic Goddess

After one morning's experimentation, I think we can safely conclude that, while I have a considerable number of highly commendable university diplomas, I have zero domestic skills.

I am incapable of cleaning windows in anything other than "streaky mode".

I have little or no capacity for concentration when it comes to housework.

I find ironing boring (for years, FH has had me believe the "soothing activity" myth about ironing...).

I just gave 5 euros to a young man who came to the door claiming to be collecting money for "the homeless". I noted his clean-cut appearance and his well-fitting clothes (that looked considerably more expensive than my own), but I was incapable of saying no.

I am on the Internet when I should be preparing yummy homemade meals to freeze for BB while I'm in hospital.

Why am I still on the Internet??

I promise: if I am still here this weekend, I will write about something other than "waiting for birth", just so you don't think I'm becoming obsessed.


Tomorrow I plan to go to the swimming pool. Will anyone notice if my waters break in the water? Will I notice??

Erratum

OK, you know what? Forget what I wrote last week. I DO want to give birth. I am more than ready. I am in the starting blocks and I am getting ever so slightly more frustrated every day 'cause no-one is blowing that damn whistle yet!

Doctors should NOT be allowed to tell you you're about to give birth if they're not absolutely, 100% certain.

That's it: I'm going to start painting the kitchen and scrubbing the floors...

Can you spot the tired, fed up, grumpy person in the above picture??
Clue: it's not the person in the foreground...

Final Call

It's amazing what the prospect of an imminent birth can do to a family.
For a man: it can shock him into an unprecedented frenzy of activity...

For a woman: it can provoke the desire to eat huge quantities of pasta and rice, straight from the bowl (no time for plates and other such niceties...)

For a future big brother: it can inspire... studied indifference.

On the other hand... I'm still here and nothing has happened yet... so maybe we should all ease up a little?!

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.

Mind Over Matter

I was examined by my obstetrician yesterday. He told me he's sure the baby will be born next week.

"What!" I cried. "Not next week. No. no. no. Not before the 31st, please."

This is not part of my plan. I have things to do next week. I have a dentist's appointment, for heaven's sake.

My doctor just smiled smugly, all of his 40 years of medical experience packed into that one confident smile.
"We'll see..." he told me.

So now the question is simply: can the mind triumph over matter??

Much Ado About Nothing

Monday being yet another "bridge day", FH took the day off work and we set off - gritting our teeth - to a certain Swedish furniture superstore.
Our mission was to buy a "big boy bed" for BB, whose legs can now frequently be seen dangling out between the bars of his baby cot.
We had already spent a considerable amount of time umming and aahing about this decision, which - naturally - takes on an importance akin to that of global warming or the future of capitalism for well-meaning parents.

I have to stress that FH and I have been to the aforementioned Swedish furniture store a total of THREE times only in the 10 years we have been together.
There are reasons for this.
I hate it.
Each of the three previous outings has ended excrutiatingly badly (claustrophobia-induced panic attack; marital dispute verging on threat of divorce, etc....), but we were determined that this time, things would run smoothly.

And they did. Sort of.
We spent the entire morning wandering around the labyrinth, studiously taking measurements, calmly weighing up pros and cons and noting down references... Then we purchased the 1-euro breakfast and ate it companiably before venturing into the warehouse area to pick out our chosen bed.
FH heaved the various flat packs onto the trolley, and we set off towards the mile-long queues in the till area.

Then, at precisely the same moment, we both stopped, looked at each other, looked at the laden trolley and said: "Maybe it's a bit too soon."
Weeks of debate, an entire morning in the nearest place to hell (in my humble opinion) that modern man has invented... and we got cold feet two metres away from the checkout.

So in the end, we piled everything back onto the shelf, returned the empty trolley, and passed through the checkout with... a €11.95 toilet brush.

Yes, that's right: the fruit of our efforts amounted to a classy Swedish toilet brush.
But the silver lining to this story is that, for the first time in 10 years, we left the place laughing...

A Swedish designed toilet brush, made in China. The result of our romantic day off together

Nesting Not Resting

Three weeks until my official due date... and it would appear that the famous "nesting instinct" is starting to kick in

I don't know which particular hormones gave me the urge to repaint the living room this weekend... but if this is indeed the nesting process, then it's a very severe case!

By the way, if I disappear for a week or so or longer at some point soon, please be aware that I am not tanning on a beach or drinking apéritif and watching the sun set...
I am probably just recovering from the inhuman ordeal of childbirth.
Spare me a thought...

Bedside Manner

Today I had the most enjoyable medical appointment of my pregnancy thusfar. Possibly of my life thusfar.
And yet... I had not been looking forward to it.

It was the routine consultation with the clinic's anaesthetist, the point of which is basically to discuss the pros and cons of an epidural and get the patient to sign a form authorising said epidural (so that the clinic is covered if anything goes wrong).
The anaesthetist who gave me my epidural two years ago was a grouchy old woman who shall ever remain in my memory thanks to the immortal words I heard her spout as she plunged the needle into my back: "Putain! Elle est maigre..." ("F***, she's skinny").
Nice.
Especially when you're in the late stages of labour.

However, today the consultant's door opened and an anaesthetist stepped out to usher me in and boy, this was no grouchy old woman.

I don't watch TV hospital dramas so I can't really compare him to anyone you might know... but suffice to say, this was Sexy Doctor personified.


He was blond, slim and slightly effeminate with floppy hair and puppy dog eyes. Everything my mother would disapprove of, in short.
But gosh he was sexy.

And - I swear this is not my deluded pregnancy brain playing tricks on me - I got the distinct impression he was flirting with me!

"You are a young woman in perfect health, I see..." he cooed, gazing into my eyes as he ticked boxes on my medical questionnaire.
"Y-y-y-yes, Doctor," I stammered (I was literally glowing with good health at this point).
"And you speak French so well," he added, baby-blue eyes boring into mine.
"Oui..." I agreed bashfully, and promptly lost all notion of how to speak French. The next two sentences that stumbled out of my mouth were littered with grammatical errors, naturally.

The climax (so to speak) was when he asked to see my blood group card. After studying it carefully for a few seconds, he looked up, flashed me a heart-melting smile and declared softly "C'est absolument parfait."
Was it? How exactly can a blood group be described as "perfect", I wondered briefly, before deciding that this was by the by: my lovely doctor thought it was perfect: therefore it was.

As I left and we shook hands (as is customary here), I stuttered: "Hope to see you soon..."
Is this an appropriate way to take leave of a doctor??
I fear not, but I can tell you something: this whole giving birth lark is suddenly starting to look a whole lot more enticing... ;-)

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!

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...

One of Life's Simple Pleasures (2)

... Sharing a "private joke" with my almost-two-year-old son.

Every development is wonderful and fascinating (to a mother), but can anything beat this?
Now, sometimes, when I'm being funny (or trying to be), he actually "gets the joke".
And I don't mean obvious stuff, like clowning around, but the more subtle, wink-wink kind of humour. A conspiratorial giggle. Or the twinkling eyes that tell me "I know you're teasing me", or "I'm teasing you."

His latest thing is to mock the way I say "More?" when offering him food. He holds out his cup, puts on a snooty English accent, says "more?", and cracks up laughing.

I'm telling you, pleasures don't get any more simple or wonderful than this...

The Final Hurdle

I'm pretty sure Anita already posted on the same subject at one point, so I apologise in advance for being unoriginal.
But there's no way around it, I need to get it off my chest (stomach).
I am ever so slightly fed up of being pregnant.

I want to be thin.
I want to run my hands over my flat, taut, tanned stomach and feel lithe and light.
I want to walk in an elegant way.
I want to break into a spontaneous run if the urge takes me (this is a theoretical "want" at the moment, given that we're still in the throes of a heatwave...)
I want to have ENERGY (instead of feeling panicky if I miss my afternoon nap)
I want to drink rosé wine and eat a big plate of sushi.
I want to be able to see my feet when I stand up (and - sorry if this is too much information for male readers - I want to be able to shave my legs in a way that doesn't involve an excrutiating and futile yoga-type move)
I want to be free of doctors and clinics and needles and blood tests and paperwork and prodding and measuring...

And most of all

MOST OF ALL

I want to be able to sleep on my stomach!

Be warned: you really don't know how wonderful it is to sleep on your stomach until you're deprived of the option...

And yet, despite this long and whiny list of complaints... I have to agree whole-heartedly with this little sentence that appears in my (one and only) pregnany book in the entry for "What to expect at week 36":
You're sick of being pregnant, but you're not ready to give birth.

Well, exactly.

Fish Out of Water

It would appear that, although it is possible to take one little English boy (e.g. BB), remove half of his English genes, replace them with the genes of a French man born and brought up in the Carribbean, provide him with a home in the sunny south of France and thus expose him to a hot climate from day 1 of his short life.... even despite all that, it is not possible to remove his essential English-ness.

Example: yesterday afternoon, when I went to collect BB from crèche, it was 35° in the shade and all the kids were running around naked in the courtyard, giggling and jumping in the puddles made by the hosepipe they were being showered with.
All the kids except one, that is.
As I searched in vain for my own little naked boy, the nursery assistant smiled and pointed inside.
Down the corridor, in a darkened room with shutters drawn and fans blazing, my darling little whiter-than-white skinned BB was happily playing alone.

The poor thing had apparently turned a scary shade of scarlet after the morning outdoor play session, burst into tears and flaked out in bed with no energy even to eat his lunch.

"Oh dear. He's really not made for the hot weather, is he?" laughed the nursey assistant.
"Chaud..." murmered BB, pitifully, cheeks blazing.
My poor baby.
Something tells me that if in a few years time we send him to England for the summer holidays, he'll look on this as a huge treat....