At Least God Has a Sense of Humour...

As I hang up the phone, having learned that BB's school will - again - be closed for striking tomorrow, it strikes me (ha ha) that God has a sharp sense of humour. The best laid plans... and all that.

Two months ago, I was banking on a career change. My efforts were focused on making the breakthrough: I'd even had The Chat with my boss, in which I announced (somewhat hastily, as it turns out) my imminent departure for bigger and better things.
And now, several strikes later, here I am: a stay-at-home-mum.
With the best will in the world, I couldn't possible be bounding up any career ladders at the moment. With no school to go to, and no family on the same land mass, BB is entirely dependent on his two primary carers, me and FH.
And you know how life is (we ALL know how life is, in reality): at the end of the day, for all the talk of equality, the accepted status quo is that, when the chips are down and school is closed... it's up to Mum to provide the childcare.

So here we are. Instead of donning heels and a crisp white shirt, I'm in jeans and flats, wondering how BB and I are going to get through another day of improvised home schooling.
I'm thinking we'll try creative tomorrow: perhaps gluing? Crafts? Maybe it's time to start the alphabet?
See, the thing is: I have decided not to be bitter about this. We choose one path, we end up on another. Is this not the essence of life, when it comes down to it?
If we choose to see the positives in every situation, surely we all win in the end?

So, instead of focusing on the closed doors (school, my career), I have simply switched focus and am walking eagerly - temporarily, or semi-permanently or at least, one step at a time - through the open door: the unexpected opportunity to be a stay-at-home mum, enjoying this newfound closeness with BB.

Who knew the anti-retirement reformers would be so successful, so quickly! 32 years old... and basking in early retirement!

Bad Feeling

Anita says she's in a "funk" at the moment. She's not sure what the word means exactly, and neither am I (we are both language exiles, in a way), but I'm starting to feel that I may be in one too.

The ongoing strikes are starting to create a lot of bad feeling. A sort of clammy, hostile environment in which everyone is either: fed up, put out or on strike.
I try not to talk about it too much. After all, strikes are on a par with politics and religion: topics best avoided unless you're absolutely 100% certain that the other person shares your viewpoint.
And to be honest, I don't really have a clearcut viewpoint on this issue.
What surprises me most of all about the anti-retirement reform strikers is their "four legs good, two legs bad" mentality; the sense that it's so obvious who the "baddies" and the "goodies" are in this epic adventure...
Add into the equation the fact that France has a long-term love affair with striking as a form of protest, and you quickly get to the fired up situation (or "social climate", as we say here) we find ourselves in at present.

I don't object to striking. But I don't appreciate being forced into a position, or qualified as morally inferior, for my decision not to strike on this occasion.
So what to do when a pro-strike colleague launches an unprovoked attack, insinuating that I - and those of my "generation" (I guess I should be grateful for the "young people" label...) are cowardly and selfish?
Options include: a serene smile, no comment, a counter-attack, an exchange of insults.
In the event, I choose to point out that every person should be free to make his/her own choice on the matter. And that nobody should callously judge the motives of anyone else's decision.
But I am missing the point: the verbal attack was launched merely to provoke, and no debate is possible. Again, all I hear is a variant of "four legs good, two legs bad", and the insults "selfish" and "cowardly" are flung back at me with a dollop of extra venom.

So, in an atmosphere bristling with unnecessary anger, I switch off my computer, hop on my bike and head off to collect BB from school, where the after-school staff are striking.
And as I pedal along, I think about some of the counter-arguments I would have liked to make, had there been an opportunity for debate, or indeed a point to voicing a viewpoint other than the "Single Acceptable Viewpoint".

I would like to say: people are different. Your desire to strike, wave a banner, shout and protest and fight the good fight depends as much on your convictions as your character.
Those of us who are ill at ease with any sort of group mentality (I am not a group joiner, that's just the way it is) find other ways to manifest our support of or opposition to whatever issue, and surely those other ways are just as valid?
I would like to say: we all have our issues. Some of us feel blood-boilingly angry at the prospect of a raised retirement age... some of us have innate convictions about the superiority of a vegetarian diet, or the bike as a mode of transport (er, no names).
But to what extent should we strive to convert others to our own set of values?
Why should I shout about my moral superiority, when I don't know the first thing about the life, history, convictions or hardships of the person I'm judging/converting/attacking?

But these are just thoughts and the hard reality is: the only person who really cares to hear them is me.
So much of the time, it seems, individuals are rooted in their own beliefs like 200-year-old oak trees set in hardened soil... and what we pass off as "discussion" is little more than two blinkered individuals shouting over one another's head about who is right, and who is wrong.

Rocky Road

When will my support for people's right to strike start to wane?
Now, as we enter week 2 of school closing early, or not opening at all?
Tomorrow, when I have to explain to my boss why I'll be leaving at 3.30 p.m., and why I can't come to work on Tuesday?
The middle of next week, when the Post Office is closed again, and my Recorded Delivery awaits - inaccessible - under a pile of unsorted mail?
Or perhaps next weekend, when the oilworkers' strike has succeeded in making petrol a rarity, and we don't have enough of the stuff to go on the holiday we have booked and paid for?

I get that it's a good thing to defend your rights. I agree that capitalism is unfair, and it's probably a short-sighted and questionable strategy to increase retirement age.
But after a while, I can't help but wonder: who is really paying the price of all this striking?
Not Nicolas Sarkozy: he can probably afford a nanny.

My dear France, we're in this for the long haul, so there's no doubt I'll stand by you, but really: sometimes you make it so hard for me to love you!

Do As I Say, Not As I Do?

The title would suggest I'm going to write about something kid-related, right?
Wrong.
Today's amusing/confusing thought for the day concerns the strike.

As we know, today was a national strike day here in France, the issue being "We defend the right to retire at 60!"
A large chunk of the public sector was on strike, and those of us who work in the private sector were given the choice. Either sit tight and work, or pack up at 2 p.m. and go out to PROTEST!

There are 19 of us in my office. Out of those 19, eight people chose to go on strike.
Up till now, nothing unusual.
Except, when 2 o'clock struck and the strikers left, something rather amusing struck (sorry for the pun) me:
The eight strikers were all aged over 60!!

And the rest of us - the "younger generation" - the ones who will actually be affected by the extended retirement age - simply shrug our shoulders and accept that, as life expectancy increases, we may just have to keep working a little longer. Or, as a fellow 32-year old colleague and I remarked: "come on! We have nearly 10 weeks holiday a year... Is it really so unreasonable to ask us to work a little longer over the course of a lifetime?"

But the really head-scratching question is: if all my 60+ colleagues think it's so important to be able to retire at 60... er.... how come none of them has chosen to retire yet?!
These are the privileged people who actually CAN retire at 60 if they choose!

As far as I can see then (and please correct me if I have missed some political nuance - it's entirely possible!): my 60+ colleagues are defending their right to do something they don't actually want to do?
Or, defending MY generation's right to do something we don't feel the need to do?

It's all quite confusing.
Or perhaps the point is simply... to protest.
I mean, come on. We can't just let the government get away with it. Can we?

In Retrospect

Naturally, "la rentrée" went very smoothly for BB, who practically galloped through the door of his new school on Friday morning.

Although he disappeared briefly up my skirt when the teacher bent down to say hello, he soon emerged again, and managed to nod and smile, hesitently.
His school has only two classes, two teachers and one classroom assistant. It's in a beautiful old building with a courtyard, and pretty much corresponds to a picture-book ideal of a slightly old-fashioned primary school, complete with blackboard and chalk (I seem to remember hearing that blackboards didn't exist anymore? But I must have been mistaken).
All in all, we're very happy with the idea that he will spend three years there.

However, this being France, there is of course a hitch.
The hitch is that - after a 2 month summer break and (so far) one full day of school, it turns out that Tuesday will be a strike day.
Yes that's right: the teachers will be out on strike, so school will in effect be closed.
So as I return to work on Monday after a 4-week holiday, it may be that I have to ask for Tuesday off.
C'est la vie. This is France, for better and for worse... and always with an indulgent smile at its clichéd foibles...

An Englishwoman in France

Here's a snapshot of the baffling interactions that mark the daily life of a young Englishwoman in the south of France:

At the shoe/belt/bag repair shop at Leclerc. Have come in to pick up my new leather belt. Had left it there an hour earlier with gruff yet smart middle-aged Frenchman, who was supposed to fix a thin leather strap onto the belt, to make it stay in place.

Me (being shown the belt): "Ah, great. Looks good. How much do I owe you?"

Him: "14 euros 90, I'm afraid. That's the set price."

Me: "Wow - that's a lot. I mean, it's just a tiny piece of leather."

Him: "I know. That's the set price, see. But let's say 7 euros."

Me (confused but smart enough not to let a good deal go): "Great, thank you!"

Him (smiles flirtatiously).

Me (hands over money, smiles flirtatiously).

Me: "Au revoir, Monsieur!"

Him: "Au revoir, Madame!"

End of transaction.
Net value of flirtatious smile = 7 euros 90

Is It Me or Is Something Funny?

I am just emerging from a 3-day long meeting (OK, technically we were allowed to go home and sleep at night, but it really did feel like a 72-hour slow torture...), so please excuse my absence and the picture-less appearance of this blog.
Colour will make a comeback soon, I promise.

On the first day of the "cross-cultural" meeting, I went to introduce myself to a British guy I'd never met before. Let's call him "Steve", to preserve his privacy.
"Hello, are you Steve?" I asked.
"Oops, yes, why: who's asking?" quipped Steve, putting his hands up in mock surrender.
I laughed. Hard.
"Police!" I joked back, holding up my company badge in the manner of a Detective Inspector.
What a wit, hey?

The thing is: this seemingly minor exchange says SO much about us Brits.
It's that humour thing again, isn't it?
Two Brits, using humour to get over initial awkwardness and smooth the path towards conversation.
This is such a cultural curiosity for me: I don't think I have ever observed two French people (or any other nationality, for that matter) use this "social humour" in the same way, right from the outset.
Contrary to common misperceptions, the French DO have a good sense of humour, and I reckon most of them enjoy a laugh as much as the rest of us... but they wouldn't think it appropriate to use it quite so liberally, or be quite so "upfront".

In fact, I can almost guarantee that, if poor Steve uses his "oops, the game's up!" joke on an unsuspecting French person, well, he's going to hit a cultural hurdle head-on.
To put it simply, they'll think he's deranged.

But it's OK for two complete strangers, who both happen to be British, to laugh and joke and be silly from the first second they encounter each other. And most of their first chat will probably be marked by laughter, silliness and the odd bit of wink-wink sarcasm.

It's fun, it's acceptable, it's heart-warming, it is second nature for me.

But, outside of the UK, it really must be used with moderation.

Creatures of Habit

One of my colleagues just got back from a 6-month stint in the UK. It was her first time "over there".
As we chatted about her experiences and impressions, she told me that the thing that struck her most was her British colleagues' attitude to food, and more specifically, lunch time.
"I couldn't believe it!" she told me, clearly baffled, "lots of people actually preferred to eat a sandwich at their desk... or even - even! - eat alone in their car!"

I nodded and "ummed" non-commitally, not quite sure where this was going.

"I mean, isn't that weird?" she insisted, obviously looking for some sort of validation on my part. "Why would anyone prefer to eat a sandwich alone, when there's a canteen and colleagues to share lunch with?!"

I debated whether to choose honesty, but really, I didn't want to upset her. Nay, maybe I didn't want to lose the esteem I had obviously earned from her as a "non-typical Brit".
So I just agreed that yes, it was odd. It was one of those "British things".

Actually, I never tell anyone when I sneak off to eat a sandwich in my car. I tend to just gallop off with a breezy "see you later!" that implies I have some kind of exciting lunch engagement.
It's simpler that way.

But I never realised until now that my attraction to solo / time-out lunch breaks might be a remnant of my cultural heritage.
I thought it was just me.
But no, maybe it's the British me.

Out of Step

Since the snow and the cold have arrived here in Toulouse, the boys and I encounter very few other people on our afternoon walks.
In fact, 95% of the fellow strollers we meet are dog-walkers: grim-faced souls wrapped up in thick layers of wool, eyes to the ground as their spritely dog gallops by.

You would think that a bit of snow might be fun for kids? Yet the only other child we met on Friday afternoon belonged to an older lady who smiled and told me: "I'm from Normandy, you know. That's why I don't mind the cold. I bet you're from the North too?"
"Yup," I nodded, "I'm definitely from the North, too."

It seems that people from Toulouse have the wrong attitude to cold weather. They see it as a burden to be avoided, rather than simply a great opportunity to accessorize (hats, scarves, gloves...)!
More seriously, I don't really understand why people here just retreat into hiding, rather than let their kids play around in the snow. But there's something peaceful about being the only souls out on days like these. Again and again, I realise that I'm happiest when I'm out of step with the rest of the city.

International Relations

I studied International Relations for two very enjoyable (albeit intimidating: everybody seemed to know five times as much as I did...) semesters at university.
The International Relations I now dabble in are slightly more modest. But they are not without importance.

Last week while walking through the park with my trusty companion LB, I was accosted (I have chosen this word on purpose) by one of the park wardens, who evidently just fancied a chat. When he discovered I was English, his eyes lit up and the chat quickly morphed into a Monologue About My Opinion of England and the English.
I use capitals because this Monologue is no stranger to me. Oh no. In fact, I would estimate that I have heard it, on average, twice a month since I first came to live in France. Twice per month = 24 times per year. I have lived here for just over 9 years.
So that means that, at a rough guess, I have been subjected to said Monologue approximately 216 times.

Needless to say, I know it so well that I can recite it from memory. The order of the points varies, but every single stranger who has served me this monologue, without exception, has included all of the following:

1/ I once went to Portsmouth/Brighton/Bath/Oxford on a school trip. For a whole week. The family I stayed with was actually really nice!
2/ I love London: people are so eccentric! Nobody judges anybody else! So refreshing!
3/ Ah, everybody knows how bad English food is! (wry smile). But I will say this: your fish & chips are fantastic!
4/ I love the atmosphere of English pubs.
5/ Ah, the weather. But you know, when I was there on my school exchange trip, it was sunny all week!
6/ English people are so laid back. Not like Parisians.
7/ You know what I really LOVE about you English? Your sense of humour! Fantastic! Benny Hill... Mr Bean... oh, I love them!

I promise you: I am not making this up. It's actually quite fascinating: young people, older people... the Monologue is always spookily identical.

But you know what, it doesn't bother me at all, even after 9 years, to be Monologued at. The reason is this: 100% of the French people who have served me this Monologue have concluded with the same line: I think the English are great people.
(some, rather shockingly, even add: "So much better than the French").

So forget the old clichés: the English are always welcome over here.

All's Well That Ends Well

So, my accident victim just called.
He is neither a fraudster nor a criminal... just a kindly older man with a somewhat loose notion of time.

I think my guardian angel must have taken pity on me: I could have smashed into one of those young guys for for whom the words "car" and "virility" are firmly entwined.
Instead, I got this nice man who explained, apologetically: "I'm not really that bothered about my car, it's just, that, well, I do really need a headlight so that I can drive it a bit longer...".
"Of course you do!" I gushed.
I am nothing if not understanding.

So we have agreed that I will simply give him a cheque to cover the worst of the damage.
And that will be the end of it. No insurance, no hassles.

"I've lived in the neighbourhood for 40 years, you know!" he told me proudly in his sing-song Toulousain accent. "I'm quite well known around here!"

I'm not really sure what that's got to do with anything, but it's nice to know.
And the kind gentleman may even get a box of chocolates with his cheque.

Another Cultural Enigma...

You may recall that I had a slight car accident over a week ago.
The more astute among you will have deduced that the accident was 100% my fault. I humbly accept that.
However, here's the weird thing:

The guy whose car I damaged ("wrecked" is too strong, but the result was not pretty: bits of his headlight still glitter in the sun along our street...) has still not been in touch to sort it out.
Because he lives just around the corner from us, we decided at the time to get in touch on Monday (that 's a week ago last Monday) to write up the report that is a legal requirement here in order to make an insurance claim.
True to form (ie. upstanding British citizen), I could be seen hovering outside his front gate at 10 am on the Monday in question. No sign of my victim.
Undeterred, I tried again later that afternoon: my victim was out, his son called him for me, and reported that he would be "in touch soon".
STILL undeterred, and anxious to sort it all out, I called and left a message the next day too.
Still no sign of life.

I am perplexed.
Why would someone whose car has been bashed up just not bother getting in touch with the silly person responsible?
I know that people tend to be laid back here in the south of France... but come on.

Just forget it! All my French friends and FH advise me, astounded that I have even bothered to call the guy.
But no, I can't. My British scepticism says he's just going to turn up on my doorstep one day with a huge bill for repair work.
FH is more imaginative: he reckons the guy has no insurance or no license (or is an illegal immigrant / criminal on the run, etc, etc) and we'll never hear from him again.
What do you think?

(Sod's Law would suggest that as soon as I finish this post, he'll ring my doorbell...).

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...

Fifth Form French Revisited

Sometimes, after a day spent sorting out things like cracked windscreens and dented bonnets and car insurance... I am reminded in a funny way of high school French lessons.

I have the vague sensation that my life is a fifth form French oral exam, where, for example, you have 10 minutes to prepare the following scenario:

"Imagine that your car has been damaged by freak hailstones. Do the following tasks: Call your insurance company and explain the situation. Call a garage and arrange for the car to be repaired. Specify that you have a child and a job and no means of transport. You have ten minutes to plan what to say. You may make notes if necessary."

I suppose the fact I can now accomplish all this without even making prior notes or looking up vocab means that I've come a long way down the path to bilingualism since high school days...

So what's the moral of the story?
Fifth form French exams ARE useful! But maybe the scenarios should be updated a little to reflect the real-life challenges of modern (wo)man...

Poor new car suffers from a rare form of automobile chickenpox...


BB, unfazed, tests out an alternative form of transport

Bridge Days

Today is a "bridge day" (in French, un "pont"). Bridge days honour an age-old French tradition: the understanding that, if a public holiday falls on a Tuesday or a Thursday, 95% of the population will take the Monday or the Friday off as well, thereby making the bridge to the weekend...
Some (a lot) of sneaky people also consider that a public holiday that helpfully falls on a Wednesday = double bridge, and may well take the whole week off.

Some of us - including me - like to work on bridge days.
I like the therapeutic calm of the office, the soft purr of the photocopier, the faint buzzing of the overhead lights...
Today, our entire staff consists of three people: me, my boss and a hapless intern (who presumably doesn't have the choice). And the sound of my fingers click-clicking on the keyboard resonates around the empty room...

FH is at home baby-minding. The creche is making the bridge, of course.
I haven't told any lies, exactly, but I perhaps led him ever so slightly to believe that I had to go into work today. The truth is that bridge days at work are so much more relaxing than looking after a toddler... so sometimes a mother has to do what a mother has to do...

The Day I Became French

Yesterday I was invited to an official ceremony at the "Préfecture" to mark my new French citizenship. I was not alone. There were no less than 130 "new" French citizens present, plus their friends and family. Knowing what an important day it was for me, FH had taken the day off to accompany his new French wife...

We were all welcomed into the beautiful, imposing salons of the Préfecture, and a short film was shown about what it means to be French. The balance between patriotism and simple national pride was just about right, and the onus was definitely on "this is a two-way contract, and France is honoured that you have chosen to become its citizens." It was all very uplifting, apart from the rather sobering reminder that it is now our duty to defend France in the event of war...
(plus, pregnant women were given priority for the too few seats, so that was nice).

After that, we were all upstanding for the national anthem, the Marseillaise. Again, it was patriotic, but not uncomfortably so...

Finally, each new citizen was called up one by one, and presented with a "welcome pack", a bise (of course) and a few polite words from the "sous-Préfet" (a bit like a British mayor, I suppose, but I'm not very well up on the intricacies of the French administrative system...).

It was all quite moving: I watched the other candidates closely and it was obvious that all of them found the ceremony, and the act of becoming French, meaningful. I don't know what their individual stories are, but I'd be curious to find out: a wide range of ages and origins were represented (although as a European with no real "need" to become French, I was definitely in the minority).
France gives itself a lot of bad press about its attitude to immigrants, and the media likes to chastise us as an immigrant hostile country.
But it's interesting to bear in mind that there are 11 of these ceremonies every year in Toulouse alone... and at the national level, about 100,000 "immigrants" obtain French citizenship every year. This figure is far superior to the highly publicised "expulsions" (the horrible scenes of illegal immigrants being forced onto planes and sent away) that we are often subjected to...


I'm not saying that everything is perfect, of course, and I know that racism and injustice exist here as they do in every country (see last week's anecdote, for example).
But sometimes it's good to remember that thousands of people do make it through the system, are welcomed into the fold and made to feel part of the national community.
And most of them are not white-skinned, or rich, or well-connected.

Yesterday, I was one of them and I left with a sincere feeling of gratitude.

Warning: Humourless Rant Below

I don’t often use this blog to moan (do I??), but today I need to let off steam about something, and this seems as good a place as any.
It’s about childcare. Not a thrilling subject, I agree, but of great importance to those of us with children.
Childcare: why is there not more of it? Why, even in a country like France, which likes to boast of its high birth rate (2 kids per woman on average, the baby-boomer of Europe), does the state not provide anywhere near the number of nursery places to satisfy everyone?

Yesterday I spent a very uncomfortable 10 minutes on the phone to the director of BB’s crèche, begging and pleading and trying really hard not to get over emotional… just to try and secure a place for BB’s little brother.
Don’t get me wrong: I don’t blame the director in any way: she has a limited number of places, and probably half the mothers in Toulouse trying to get their offspring into her crèche. I know: I did the same for BB. We told her I was pregnant way back in January (in bigger cities like Paris, you practically have to apply for places a year before you plan to conceive!) and yet the “battle” still rages, because other mums are pregnant too and, well, it seems that childcare is a cut-throat marketplace like any other.

The story will almost certainly have a happy ending for us, because the lovely director has promised to do her absolute best for us, and BB’s brother will probably be able to start crèche in November (sooner than I really wanted, but beggars most certainly cannot be choosers).
But what about the unlucky ones?

Is it even right that we only secured a place for BB in the beginning thanks to a “friend who has a friend who…” (a process known in French as “se faire pistonner”, something that happens a lot here, and in other cultures too, I suppose)?

And there’s something not very pleasant about the whole process, I feel. My poor baby is still floating around in my belly, slurping a bit of amniotic fluid and learning how to open his eyes… and I am already battling to find someone who will take care of him while his mum goes out to work.
And yet this is the reality for many of us who simply cannot afford to take more time off work.

Surely more should be done to provide decent, affordable childcare?
ALL “working mums” (the quotation marks are ironic because all mums are by definition “working”) should have the right to CHOOSE a nice, safe environment for their child, so that they can go off to do their office job, or whatever it is they have to do to pay the bills, secure in the knowledge that their child is safe and happy.

Surely it’s not too much to ask?

Rant over. Thank you for listening.

Velvet Revolution

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.

Split Personality

Well, here’s the feedback on my attempt to be assertive, individualistic and French.

It was one of those classic situations: crowded car park, one free space, two cars drawn towards it at exactly the same time.
My instinctive reaction was, naturally, to slip meekly into reverse and get out of the way so that car no. 2 (my opponent) could access the space more easily.
Then a strange, assertive voice inside my head piped up “Hey! That space should be yours! Look, that guy is about sixty, he’s on his own – probably retired – and has all the time in the world to be wandering around shopping centres,” (the assertive voice was not very politically correct…) “but you, on the other hand, are a busy mother with a whining baby in the back and not enough time!”
Yes, I thought, heart pounding, you’re right!
So without further hesitation, I swung the Twingo into the free space a tad more aggressively than necessary, flashing a triumphant smile at my opponent as I did so.

Ha! I turned off the engine, feeling victorious.

But then – gulp – I saw that old guy-opponent had not budged but was still indicating that he was planning to turn.
“Oh no!” fretted strange, meek voice (in my head) “He’s angry! He’s going to wait for you to get out and there’ll be a confrontation and you’ll have to apologise for being so impolite!”
So I slipped down into my seat a little further and pretended to be fumbling around for something on the floor to gain time.
When next I sneaked a glance upwards, I saw that old guy was pulling into the space right next to me!
What a horrible, embarrassing coincidence! Of all the cars in the car park, why did my neighbour have to decided to evacuate right then?? Arg! This meant that old guy and I would be forced to get out at the same time, and I would then be face to face with him, without the comforting outer shell of my Twingo!
A little rosy-cheeked at this point, I continued my futile search for a non-existent object in the glove compartment. Then I turned round and pretended to be having a chirpy chat with BB, who scowled at me impatiently.
Old guy took forever to clamber out of his big car. When at last he did, he glanced over at me with a haughty look of disapproval. I did my best to look defiant.. but the rosy cheeks didn’t help.

So, shall we conclude that my assertiveness experiment was only partially successful?