Dinner chez H and P (and the horse)

Last night's dinner with H and P, The Most Popular Man From Alsace (B.) and his wife, was absolutely lovely.

As ever when B. and I are seated together there was chat about the environment. We two seem to be the Village Greens. Odd how years ago 'Village Green' would have brought to mind gentle games of cricket and cream teas, little wisteria-covered houses and a pub called The King's Head. Now it identifies us as a pair of idealists who lend each other DVD's such as 'An Inconvenient Truth' and who are always happy to try to recruit people to our cause or bore them with our planet-focused notions. Last night someone suggested that B. should stand for maire in next year's local elections for which we, as residents, are eligible to register at the village mairie, and everyone agreed that he would be sure to introduce some radical changes.

I'd certainly like to see solar panels on all of the houses, especially the new homes that are planned for the land near the station.I fantasise about turning my little gite into a eco-friendly, energy-sufficient dwelling and establishing an eco-centre in the old house next to La Poste, to educate and inform visitors and residents alike.. If I had the funds I would pay for it myself, in the meantime while I wait to win the Euro Millions I read and research and plan how to convert the maire to the plan
and why not????

For an eco-aware person Brittany is a pretty good place to be.
Aside from a landscape that is so verdant, so lush and so forested that every breath that you take feels like a healthy tonic, and the fresh sea breezes that sweep away any lingering pollution and replaces it with a light and fresh air, and the regular rains that rinse us clean, there is just the general common-sense of the human inhabitants. The local Bretons, the retired French and Runaway Brits generally live modestly and carefully and don't waste the planets resources. It simply doesn't make sense to throw away food that could be recycled by a neighbour's chickens or goats and extra cakes or deserts that are produced at The FVH find their way next door to A. or occasionally the other way to R and N. In addition people reduce waster by shopping regularly for fresh food and daily for bread and buy just what they require and no more. If a fruit or vegetable is in season it is on the table, if not then, tant pis.

There ARE problems caused by the nitrate run-offs from livestock farming, as witness the blooming of algae along the coastlines further south and the constant talk of the harm this causes to the mussels and oysters that are farmed there and, sadly, we have occasional disasters when a ship in the channel spills oil (and why aren't all tankers double-hulled, did the Exxon Valdiz disaster not teach the oil companies anything???) but I like to think that Brittany is a pretty good place, environmentally-speaking

Between courses P. and I popped out to turn out his beautiful grey gelding from his daytime stable to the little paddock where he passes the spring nights. He's a magnificent horse, over 17 hh and an ex-Queen's cavalry horse who was sent to Brittany to end his days in a peaceful semi-retirement. As he wandered into his paddock and started to graze contentedly the setting sun cast a golden glow and swallows swooped low overhead. It was such a perfect scene that I fully expected a sound track to begin playing in the background.

I will, it seems, become very friendly with this horse next month since I have been asked to exercise him while P. is away from home. So in early June if you happen to be in this part of Central Brittany and see a small woman astride a very large horse ambling along the lanes or cantering along the grass verges please, slow down, give us a wide berth and a friendly wave. You'll know its me, I will be wearing an expression of ecstatic bliss

(Note to self, find boots and hat)

As we continued our dinner the talk turned to village politics and explanations were offered for some if the divisions between the residents. I daresay that village life was ever such, small grievances grow into semi-blood feuds. Newcomers step on the toes and trample the sensibilities of long-time residents. A careless chance remark causes a rift of Grand Canyon proportions....

I was advised not to put up with A's moans and moods, not to let another resident bully me, to be less of a soft-touch where the neighbours are concerned. In vain did I try to explain that I have always avoided confrontation, that I have constantly tried to see other people's points of view and to make allowances for them, even as that has led to my being labelled as weak and, occasionally, being bullied.

You see, I think none of us are perfect, we all have our faults and failings, we are all of us flawed in some way. It's all about respect and, especially, respect for yourself

All of which was very hard to express in French and I fear I came over simply as A Soft Touch, judging by the shaking of heads and the group sighing that followed. But it seems that I have managed not to be seen to be taking sides or becoming involved in existing conflicts, I am Neutral and Harmless and a Happy Influence and that suits me just fine...

live and let live...

Wednesday morning

is the weekly market in the local Small Market Town.

We are fair-weather al fresco shoppers. If the day dawns bright and sunny we will wander round the fruit and vegetables stalls, the cheese and cream van, and the delicious chicken and eggs sold by the lady who throws in free French lessons. We stop by the cages of live poultry and rabbits and ponder the possibilities of 'rescuing' a few baby bunnies and a dozen or so ducklings before moving sadly on. I linger over the racks of flowing skirts and tunics that have become my daily dress and pass swiftly by the pile of polyester pullovers and nylon overalls of the 'older woman'. There are always a few new-comers, speculative sellers of grotesque glass flowers or beaded bags, they come and go and no-one seems to miss them much.

This morning the rain was heavy and cold so we skipped the market and made straight for the cosy little cafe that bakes, I am assured by my resident expert, The Best Mille Feuilles in France
















The cafe also stocks liquers and preserves and jars of such 'tourist treats' as frogs-leg paté and herbed mustard. I haven't been tempted by the jars, other than to send the 'most adventurous concoctions' back to England as teasing gifts for The Ex who is such a conservative eater that he rarely entertains anything other than slices of meat and gravy, potatoes and vegetables. I'm quietly confident that he now has a cupboard full of bottles and jars that perplex him almost as much as I did when I was his wife! I do, however, use their delicious oils and vinegars that I use to flavour our dinners. Seafood with a drizzle of seaweed, shallots and sea salt vinegar, slices of lamb marinaded in the curry and mango balsamic, vegetables stir-fried in the nut oils.





And I always keep a few bottle of their creamy liquers to round off dinners with friends, bottles of Breton cider liquer to give as gifts to the plumber (who is also the maire) in gratitude for his very prompt appearance when my pipes suddenly leak or the stove chokes and delicate flower-flavoured syrups that look so beautifully feminine they should sit on my dressing table rather than the sideboard in the kitchen.


Today was a two-coffee morning as we waited for the local garden centre to re-open after lunch so that I could buy a plant as a gift for a friend...

We are, I feel, becoming SO French!

at the airport

So, there I was at Brest airport, bright and early and excitedly waiting to welcome back my First-Born. A few minutes before it was due to land the arrivals screen suddenly announced that the flight from Luton would be around an hour late. I considered wandering out to the car that I'd optimistically left in the One Hour Car-Park and moving it round to get another free ticket but couldn't be bothered to get up from the green metal seat that I could feel making interesting indentations across my, er sit-upon

An extra hour. There was no way that I could continue to read The Functional Analysis Of English, not for another hour, it would send me to sleep to suffer nightmares in which nasty Noun Phrases would chase me around a dictionary written in hieroglyphs. Especially after a particularly large lettuce-lunch. I sighed, gave up all pretence of intelligence and opened my Sudoku book... 'l'organisateur de sport cèrèbral' the cover claimed. That would do nicely!

When the arrival hour had finally ticked round I wandered outside to watch the plane as it made its final approach. I always watch it come in. It's a ritual that I have established during the past almost-nine-months of waiting for one or both of my Ragazzi to arrive in France, as if my holding my breath, hopping from foot to foot and bursting into tears as the wheels hit the tarmac will contribute to a safe landing. Where the Rags are concerned I take no chances...

Back inside I stood with the expectant throng that had clustered around the door marked Arrivée and wondered if I have gone so far with the Laid-Back Look that I now qualify as an old hippy. White cotton trousers, a pink embroidered tunic, white flip-flops, my hair hanging down past my shoulders... I hope that I appear relaxed and happy, probably the look is more 'Finally Gone Native'. Tant pis

As I stood eagerly waiting for the glass doors to slide apart to reveal my daughter I noticed a man lurking next to them and, as the first passenger walked through with that embarassed 'Don't Make Eye Contact With Anyone' unfocused stare the lurker shot forward and through the doors that were marked Entrance Strictly Forbidden (in French). I tutted in a very English manner and looked around to see if anyone else had noticed but apparently not and then I was struck by the potential seriousness of the incident.

There were a group of armed police standing nearby, in fact I suddenly realised that there were police everywhere, and small groups of men in suits and name badges were being escorted through the terminal building. I wondered if The Men In Black were VIPs or part of a delegation, maybe diplomats or politicians or worse!

I'm not one to turn away. When people fall in the street I am the one who rushes to pick them up and kiss their grazed knees better. If someone is mugged I will attempt to give chase. When I witnessed a gang of pick-pockets on the Paris Metro I played the Good Citizen.

I walked to the Information Desk.
In French I informed the young woman who was, I am pretty sure, no more than 12 years old, that I had seen someone slip into the Arrivals Hall through the door marked Entrance Strictly Forbidden. I described him, his grey beard and hair and his casual clothing. And I waited...
She shrugged and looked at me in a totally unconcerned manner

I repeated the story in English in case she had misunderstood me
She shrugged again, perhaps he was a customs official?
I asked her if the customs official would gain entrance with a key, like all other authorised personnel, rather than hanging around waiting for a hapless passenger to open the door?

She shrugged again and looked past me and into thin air
Did she not consider this to be a potential security risk? I asked
Non, she replied

Perhaps he can get to the aircraft? I suggested
She shrugged again and said no, that wouldn't be possible

Oh well. I thanked her, rather sarcastically, for her time and attention and as I turned to leave I thought that I would be leaving in a few minutes, safe with my daughter whereas she was obliged to remain seated behind her desk, and then I wished her a safe and incident free afternoon

As the Ragazza and I were leaving I glanced back and saw her sitting staring vacantly after me

Hello????
Airport Security????

The Tai Chi Tribe

Tuesday mornings are devoted to Tai Chi at The FVH

Not 'proper Tai Chi', we need a teacher in order to train our wayward limbs to flow with the chi and Brittany, oddly for such a spiritual spot, lags behind in this respect. There are no Tai Chi classes in Region 22. I daresay people are too busy battling the elements to fight their lack of 'flow', too concerned with their clogged-up fosse septique's to worry about their blocked energy channels.

Tant pis, perhaps that will change one day...

We, The Tai Chi Tribe of Four meet in my large lounge.
The sofas are pushed back against the walls, the large rugs are strategically placed to provide little islands of warmth for bare tootsies, scented candles fill the air, sun shines in through open windows and bird song provides a gentle musical accompaniment.

Of course the hour or so before people arrive is stressful for me as I rush around with a brush and duster trying to create order from chaos and harmony from mayhem. I mutter under my breath as the puppies rush past with an old half-eaten chew, swear slightly as a cat slinks through carrying yet another dead mouse-offering for the Shrine Of My Bedroom, shake my head in disbelief that I have yet again, left the tidying to the last minute when I swore to Be Prepared this week.

One of the dangers of leading a slow and reflective life is that it can, at times, slow to a stop.
Which is refreshingly relaxing and nourishing for the soul unless you have people coming round.
And these days people are always coming round.....

Still, all was ready by the time they arrived and we spent a peaceful morning engaged in our Tai Chi Relaxation Exercies followed by coffee and petit fours and concluding with a trip up the garden to view the Central Brittany Lettuce Mountain

Life is very sweet here in Brittany...

PS

after that last nostalgic trip to England here's a partial list of some of the things that I would miss if I were to leave Brittany


The French Language
Speaking French every day. To everyone
The only way to really learn a language is to live with the people who speak it. To acquire their culture, their habits, their mindset
I love learning languages, they are endlessly fascinating and a jewel in a country's crown


The Countryside. Brittany is the size of Wales. When I step outside my door and walk down the lane or leave the village in either direction, I am immediately engulfed in glorious, rampant, green countryside. A countryside of rolling hills, gentle wooded slopes, fields of crops and cows, gorse bushes and flowers lining the roads, insects humming and birds singing.

I wander the lanes and roads with The Tibetan and the Toddler Tibetans. I stop and gaze at butterflies on flowers, bees buzzing by, a bird of prey circling. I talk to cows as they canter curiously alongside the fence. I stand, eyes-closed and listen to the sound of water gurgling and laughing in the brooks. Sometimes I even sit down and meditate for a few minutes.

Brittany is heavily wooded, in this part 80% of the land is covered with trees. There are forests and woods and gorges and valleys everywhere. For a tree hugger and occasional climber this is paradise...

and then there's the coastline. Vast expanses of sandy beaches, rocky shortlines, dramatic granite cliffs, little busy seaside towns and all of it washed by The Sea.

They say that in towns you are never more than six feet away from a rat.
In England this is also true of the human rats.
I declare it's becoming so crowded, so over-populated that pretty soon people will have to stand on each other's shoulders for air. England is now claustrophobic and crowded and fast and frenetic and totally out of harmony with the vibrations of the human soul...


The People.
Everyone says 'Bonjour', even little tots on their velos as they swerve past with a baguette under one arm, even surly adolescents as they slink past with a baguette up their T-shirt, even dour old ladies as they totter past with a baguette in their baskets, even old men as they wander past with fogged eyes and a baguette clutched in gnarled hands

The Bretons are practical and thrifty and full of common sense, but alcoholism is a serious problem here and many of my neighbours drink far too much, hopefully the baguettes help to soak up the Ricard a little

The English residents are lovely. At least the ones that live locally and are integrated into the life of the commune. There are some 'Brits' who refuse to learn French, to adapt to life in France, who live in little clusters of nostalgia and try to pretend that they're still in Surrey or Southend.
Live and let live, Chacun à son goût


The Food
Of course. Fresh seafood, live crabs and lobsters that I WILL, one day soon, be brave enough to kill and cook. The most delicious beef I have ever eaten. Seasonal fruit and vegetables, even if that does mean that some days there is no broccoli and all you see are rows and rows of leeks (or lettuces)


The Neighbours
When I go to the home of a French neighbour I drink my strong black coffee with hot milk and eat buttered crèpes, sitting in an over-large wooden chair with my feet swinging because they don't reach the floor, trying to follow the fast-flowing French conversation. I am, for all the world like a small child at a table of adults and yes, once someone DID pat me on the head.

The neighbours constantly pop round to advise, support and help me.
They cut my grass and tell me when it's time to trim my hedges.
They fix the gate that breaks when the storm blows in from the Atlantic.
They tut-tut and tell me that I have planted out my beans too soon, that the vine needs pruning, that my geraniums are dry. I wish they'd also warned me against planting 50 lettuces.
Occasionally R. gets drunk and proposes to me.
Sometimes The Dashing One tells me that he's jealous
And the wives watch to make sure that I brush them aside with a laugh and a joke, while they plan a partner for me, un copain who will render my status safe and no longer single

Sometimes A. totters round on shaky legs and bangs her stick on the door to attract my attention so that she can give me a good telling-off. I listen with a serious expression, I adopt a regretful air, I act conciliatory and I apologise profusely. And when she's gone I think 'Who the heck does she think she is?' But I respect her age and seniority far too much to say it out loud.

The Music.
Celtic music at the Fest Noz. Lively, toe-tapping pipes and everyone who doesn't have a wrecked knee dancing past in a big, happy circle. The Bretons love music and they love to get together and have fun. And something in the music touches something in me. Some half-remembered memory of distant days and other times. I sit and close my eyes and am transported to ???

Medieval churches and even-older chapels where I sit in a pool of light, warmed by the sun's rays and the prayers of people who have, for centuries, sat on the same spot as me and lifted their eyes to heaven and their souls to God

The Stones
Standing stones, menhirs, great boulders that sit atop open moors or shelter in the middle of wind-swept fields. I stand, face pressed against the granite and try to hear the echoes of voices from long ago. The vibrations of the people who passed this way before me. A lingering energy from the souls of the long-dead.

Foraging and Beachcombing
I love natural ornaments, oyster shells collected from the stony beach at Binic, pebbles that the waves have washed smooth, pieces of lichen-crusty wood, a pile of logs in a basket by the stove, pictures of toadstools.

What else? I love my large French Village House. I love that it's paid-for, every square inch of it. I love my little gite. I love my gardens and the courtyard that traps the sun and heat and where strawberries ripen and flowers flourish in boxes and pots. I love the wood-burning stove. the thick stone walls and the shutters that protect me from storms...

I love that here in Brittany I have Time to Simply Be Me

Cara Ragazza

Cara Ragazza,

I hope that you are having a good time in England with your father and brother.
I thought some more about when I will return for a visit and, honestly, I have no desire to set foot on Ye Olde English Earthe, at least not yet

I daresay I will, eventually, be compelled to return to the land of my birth, perhaps

What do I miss the most?
Aside from your brother (and that's a given)...
The Standard Tandoori restaurant. It's not just the food, The Best Indian Food In England, or the Nepalese staff who are so kind and gentle, or the statues of Buddha and pictures of the Dalai Lama, it's that I used to eat there with family and friends (and boyfriends) and so I always associate it with family and friends and happy times.
Are you SURE you couldn't bring back a chicken korma, aubergine bhaji and pilau rice?

Reading Central Library. And our Tuesday evening after-work visits. Do you remember that secretive little man with the long grey pony tail who was always there, a pile of newspapers at his side, making tiny notes in exercise books. I WISH I knew what he was doing and why.

Costa coffe. And that so flattering and flirtatious Italian behind the counter.
The French flirt (especially when I'm carrying plants or flowers, remember?), but the Italians REALLY know how to appreciate women

Marks and Spencer's Food Hall. It doesn't help to have those delicious adverts on Sky TV. I am thinking of asking for them to be moved to a pre-six pm 'watershed' so that I can avoid salivating over those delicious dishes while that woman speaks so seductively in the background.
"This is not just food, This is M&S Food..."

Riding at Checkendon. I wonder how Kerrie is, if her leg healed after the surgery. Before you were born I used to ride another little chestnut called Harmony. He was a handful and a real challenge to control but I loved riding him and was totally distraught when his occasional lapses into lameness led to his being put down. I should have bought him and now I wonder if I should have bought Kerrie too. Your grandmother always said that one day I'd end up loving a three-legged old horse...
I'll find a stables here where we can ride together when your brother visits...

Walking The Tibetan down the lane, through the woods and over the fields. While I was so stressed and sick the simple act of walking the dog every morning was a pure pleasure and relief. I think it helped me to cope until I could escape The Company and all who sail in her. And Tashi STILL remembers his playmate, Jake, and expects every springer spaniel to be him, which I find sad.

It's odd that I don't miss people. Probably because we have so many good friends here each of whom seems to fulfill a need in our lives. I DO miss Maggie, and Kari and Tim and, occasionally, my dates with N. which were the only times that I wore high heels and tight skirts and felt like a grown-up woman

I miss the shops in the village and being able to wander along and get anything that I needed.
I miss the hardware store where I could get the cord on the hedge trimmer repaired whenever I cut through it and the bikes fixed, the pet shop where The Tibetan used to steal biscuits while I chatted to Pete, I REALLY miss Fish and Chips on Tuesday evenings...
sigh

Recently I have missed The Work Tribe. I never miss The Hostile One, T's description of her as The PlayGround Bully was most apt. But the others, sometimes I do miss them, their company and the daily interactions we shared. I miss laughing with my co-workers, fetching them lattes and fruit, I miss the customers and I miss fixing problems. I miss The Product.

I DO NOT MISS THE STRESS
They say that stress accumulates so slowly that we fail to notice it until it has become such a heavy burden that we crumble under its weight. I think though that I first noticed my stress years ago after a Solstice Party in Boston, at least that's when I began to feel edgy and sick, and after that it simply spiralled out of control. Sometimes I wonder that I didn't fall apart. Oh wait, I did fall apart...

Which brings me back to Here and Now

It is a fact of human nature that we fail to appreciate that which we have and think only of that which we have lost...

There is so much here that I would miss if I were to leave. People and places that have become part of my life in France. Little routine that we have established and habits acquired So while I am living in Brittany I am really trying very hard to live in the moment. One day I will move again and then I know that I will look back on Brittany and sigh...

For now I feel safe here and that is such a blessed relief after the last few years

The secret of health for both mind and body is not to mourn for the past, worry about the future, or anticipate troubles, but to live in the present moment wisely and earnestly - Buddha

Meanwhile, have a good visit in England. I hope that the rain isn't too bad that it spoils your fun though you should, after a winter in Brittany, we accustomed to dodging raindrops. If you CAN get those skirts and blouse from Per Una you will make your mother a happy woman. Give my love to your father's family and a HUGE HUG to your brother...

See you Tuesday at Brest airport

Mama XXXX

PS Your cat has slept on my bed every night and is perfectly OK

PPS I learned (by accident) how to make the oven self-clean! It was dramatic and scarey, the door locked and the temperature rose to such an extent that I thought that the darned thing had gone nuclear but after it was all over, and when the smoke had cleared, the oven was clean!
Who knew????

Today I am making strawberry tarts in a very clean oven, such joy!

'lettuce' be a lesson to me...

I can't say that I wasn't warned

"Do not plant too many lettuces, or tomatoes, courgettes or anything else that will grow with such frighteningly fast fertility that you will be overwhelmed by produce"

Yesterday, in an attempt to escape the daily question "What would you like for breakfast/lunch/dinner with your lettuce?" The Ragazza fled the country and sought sanctuary in her fathers's house, where people grow nothing except for hair and older

This morning I wandered out to the vegetable boxes to examine the growing toll of lettuces. I am pretty certain that more have appeared overnight. I know that I ate one yesterday and I picked one to hide in The Ragazza's case but in the space that they should have left there appear to be more lettuces growing

I think that I have around 50 lettuces all ready to eat

I have never known anything like it.
In England I struggled to raise a pepper plant in my garden
I did once have lettuces but they vanished mysteriously one night

Here I have the opposite problem
"The Case Of The Always-Appearing Lettuces"

The Breton climate is perfect for growing fruit and vegetables...
Several days of dirt-drenching rain followed by misty, mild mornings that give way to hot, sunny days equals rampant green growth

So, since I want to plant out peppers, aubergines and tomatoes
and since I refuse to waste any of these really rather wonderful lettuces, come with me into the FVH Kitchen to see what became of them all...
well, some of them...

and no, it wasn't spam and lettuce!

The Work Tribe

The previous post (and Jennifer's comment) set me thinking about Work, or rather how it is not to be in it...

I have been surprised and, at times, shocked by how much I have missed work since I fled The Rat Race last July. Please don't get me wrong, there is much that I don't miss, there was a great deal that was wrong that I couldn't, finally, live with, not least because it prevented me from doing my job as well as I felt it should be done...

But I DO miss the problem-determination, the fixing of software bugs and helping people to use the products, the contact with customers and the general structure of the working day. I miss the sense of achievement and the feeling that, as I wound my weary way home at night, I had earned my money and done a good job.

And I miss the feeling of belonging, being a part of it all.

It's acknowledged that human beings are not solitary animals, that we have a deep-rooted desire to congregate in groups and that these gatherings provides a sense of security and a feeling of belonging to The Tribe which is vital for our well-being. After all, it's the ones who The Tribe rejects who are the most vulnerable and who generally fail to survive.

The world of work is one such tribe. A tribe that is increasingly important to people as marriages dissolve, families move apart, children grow up and leave home. When we live in disjointed and rapidly changing communities that fail to provide us with a sense of belonging.

It is very important that the members of the Work Tribe get along. That they are all striving for the same goals and share the same ideals and ambitions. They should feel a strong sense of belonging, know their place within the Tribe and be confident that they are valued and loved.

The Work Tribe must exhibit honesty and integrity

I suspect that CEO's, H.R and middle managers may not appreciate the important place that The Work Tribe occupies in the hearts of people. When one considers the whole process of hiring and firing and the lack of consideration given to the dynamics of The Work Tribe then it's obvious that most companies fail to grasp this essential aspect of human nature. If the Work Tribe doesn't contain the right mix of members, some inspirational, others caring, a few dedicated and with the odd radical thinker, and if they don't appreciate and respect each other then I bet the business isn't as successful as it could be

tant pis

je suis comme je suis....

It is a widely accepted fact that people are defined not by who they ARE but by what they DO to earn a living

Which, whilst you're working, provides you with a public persona behind which to face (or hide from) the world.
"I am a teacher"- someone with whom you'd trust your kids
"I am a doctor" - someone you'd undress in front of
"I am a tax official" - someone you'd run from
"I am a politician" - someone to throw eggs and insults at

No matter that the teacher may be a bully and a tyrant
or that the doctor may be about to be struck off for misconduct with a patient
or that the tax offical may be a really nice person
or the politician, well, let's leave aside the politician....

In my case "I work in I.T" was enough to earn me a modicum of respect (more so in Ye Olde Days when I.T was called D.P and there weren't many women doing IT) and the label "Quite Intelligent, Totally Stressed, Probably Well-Paid".

When you stop working, for whatever reason, you are, effectively, stripped bare of this badge of identity, this shield and exposed to the world as the person you really are, or, often, who people assume that you are. Which can be as revealing as a game of Truth or Dare

I never knew that I am a slightly dotty, totally incapable, helpless female.
But that's how my the neighbours see me as they wander past (and into) The FVH giving me unsolicited advice on everything from how to trim a hedge, to how to handle French tax returns and who, next, to marry

I never knew that I am The Life And Soul Of The Party
But that's how people here view me as I pour another drink and pass another plate

And as for being Supremely Confident!
Moi?

Should I tell everyone that they're wrong?
That I have survived for 50 years, almost 10 of them as a single parent living without a partner and not once have I burnt down the house, mislaid a child or fallen downstairs.
That I can trim my own hedges, complete my own tax returns and find my own partner.

Should I point out that there is a world of difference between 'extroverted' and 'desperately insecure' even as both conditions manifest themselves in the same exuberant behaviour?

and as for being confident...
I think that I am the least confident, most anxious person that I have ever had the misfortune to live with, and I should know

Or, are these people right?
Maybe I really am as helpless as they think? As fun as I may appear? As confident as that?

Maybe I really am, always have been, just "The Nice But Dumb Anglaise With The Cute Dogs"

a May morning in Central Brittany

When the sun shines brightly in a Breton-blue sky and the air is thick with the humming of insects and birdsong...





when the brook in the lane behind The FVH babbles ...













and the village floats amongst fresh green foliage

when cows lie contentedly munching lush new grass

and wild flowers decorate the fields with splashes of colour

then I can't imagine anywhere in the world more beautiful than Brittany on a May morning

bien fleuris

As sometimes happens when I feel under pressure, I walked into the florist shop in the square of The Market Town, opened my mouth and les mots me sont echappés...

"Je voudrais des fleurs, pour quelqu'un qui est morte, pour sa messe aujourd'hui... "

The pretty young florist understood immediately and announced, in French, that people around here take little pots of begonias to a funeral

I chose a pot of pink flowers and she carefully wrapped it in that so-very French way that turns even a simple 'gift' into something special.

She picked up a card...
"Would I like her to write the card?"
Yes, please, in the correct French manner
It is so important to say the correct thing here in France where even an e-mail is finished with a flowery expression of sincerity and well-wishes and I was anxious to get it right

She wrote the card in that beautiful handwriting that all French children learn and practice at school and added "de la parte de...."

I would never have known that was how to say 'from'
and doesn't it sound so much nicer?
The French really ARE the world's best when it comes to such formalities

On the way home I called in at the garden centre for more flowers to decorate the FVH. The man on the checkout recognised me, winked and called "Bonjour madame, vous devez être bien fleuris"
I smiled and thought, once again, what a charming expression...

For some reason I found myself leading the flower-bearers at the funeral procession. Like a strangely sombre flower-girl I walked behind The Dashing One carrying a large gold cross and R. who straggled slightly behind struggling under the weight of the cross that will adorn the grave. I felt embarassed to be in such a position when I had never even met the lady whose death we were to mourn and whose life we were to celebrate.

The service was long and involved several readings, much pomp led by a man from The Posh Town whose job, it seems, is to officiate at funerals, the taking of communion and, finally, everyone lining up to dip a gold cross into holy water and make the sign of the cross over the coffin. I declined to participate, not being a Catholic, but I did manage to join in The Lord's Prayer in French and I knew the responses to some of the blessings from the two previous masses that I have attended.

Outside again in the sunshine the funeral director handed me a huge floral tribute to carry down the hill to the cemetery. I glanced around for my own flowers but they had been placed inside the green and cream-coloured hearse. The card on the flowers declared them to be from The Commune and I felt embarassed to be, once again, in such a position.

As we walked I struggled under the weight of the large floral tribute. Please don't let me drop them! Please don't let me stumble! Please don't let A. down. The funeral director by my side glanced at me, gently took the flowers from my aching arms and handed me a small pot of pink roses. "merci monsieur" I whispered gratefully

As we stood in the cemetery, the sun beating down, with the flowers around our feet, reciting more prayers and with more sprinkling of holy water I couldn't help feeling like an extra in an old French film.

It was so surreal

But was we left to walk back up the hill and to E's house for coffee I glanced back
A's sister's final resting place would be bien fleuris indeed

Oh You!

I mean, of course, O.U, as in Open University with whom I am studying, at a very long-distance, for my degree in Modern Languages, the title is a jeux de mots.
I know, it's a poor attempt but let me explain...

This morning the postman left a package containing the next 500 books for my French course (ok, I exaggerate, 2 books and a cassette which, for the benefit of any younger readers is a quaint sound recording medium that was used extensively in Ye Olde Days)

and two letters containing marked assignments, one for me (English Grammar In Context) and one for The Ragazza (An Introduction To The Sciences)

in my house Studies R Us

I waited until she came down so that we could open our letters together and compare scores, notes and criticisms. I fluffed mine, having totally mistaken the concordancing criteria for Question 3, entered the wrong search string and, of course, produced a set of perfect results with an admirable analysis but for totally the wrong linguistic feature
(a concordancer is a piece of software into which you load a whole corpus of texts to be analysed, I love using it, it reveals HOW language is really used by real people, so it provides me with hours of good clean fun, so necessary when one lives in The Dark Ages, er rural Brittany. And before anyone accuses me of being anti-Brittany may I point out that it was the man at France Telecom who described my village in those terms when I enquired after Broadband, after he'd got up off the floor and stopped laughing)

So, I fluffed Question 3 and only got 66%

The Ragazza's mark was a little lower, hence her "Oh You!"

And that is SO unfair because she works diligently and conscientiously at her course, nibbling away at it in nice bite-sized chunks, digesting it and then moving on according to the time-table, whereas I attack mine in fits and starts, gnawing away at it like a dog that's just accidentally unearthed an old bone, before burying it and losing it again for days on end

Her steady-study habits mean that she is organised and on-top of her workload whereas I have moments of panic when I suddenly discover that I have an overdue assignment and have to stay up for three days and nights desperately trying to complete it. It's usually during these marathon sessions that a storm strikes and we lose the electricity so I have to write my assignment which, for the benefit of younger readers, is when you take a quill and make inky marks on a piece of paper, marks that you can't edit or spell-check or word-count.

Eventually The Ragazza will, tortoise and hare-like, overtake me.
I hope it's soon

Meanwhile I am studying epistemic and deontic modality
Who knew???

crazy...

On Friday we spotted this odd-looking cow in a field on the main road

I think that living in the backwaters of Brittany is starting to affect me

aperitifs chez moi

On Friday I was being dragged round the village by the dogs when I met a some new people

I now know most of the people who live in the village
Not the commune, because that includes the little cluster of new houses at the top of the road and the out-lying farms and dwellings, but those of us who live in the old village houses...

I said 'bonjour' which is the least that one says to a stranger in passing and then something made me stop and ask quietly

"Vous avez achetez la petite maison?"

Yes, they had indeed bought the little house behind the church
'they' being a Dutch couple

We swapped to English since they 'only speak Dutch, German and English' comfortably and I invited them to The FVH for a little welcome drink and a get-to-know-you session with other English friends. As I walked away it suddenly occured to me how remarkable that simple act was, how significant. When I lived in England I would never have had the courage to speak to strangers, much less invite them to my home

Yesterday evening they arrived.
We sat in the conservatory to nibble on snacks, Ritz crackers spread with paté or goat's cheese, those little slices of fatty sausage that the Bretons love, hot slices of flammkeuche, tiny tomatoes with a mouth-burst of flavour, gerkins and onions, the standard aperitif fare.. they drank red wine in true European fashion, we drank Kir Royal and Ricard and a rosé commes les françaises

and as we sipped and nibbled and chatted about the 35 hour working week, the lack of skilled labour in Holland, house prices in Europe, they with their couple of glasses of wine and us our assortment of alcohols, it occured to me how far removed I have already become from The Rest Of The World.

The world of work and investments and owning a ski-chalet in the Alps and all other such grown-up matters has become like a foreign language to me.

It was ever-so-slightly disconcerting to feel so disconnected
As if I had leapt into a little rubber dinghy and been cast adrift from the Ship of Success to bob hither and thither, rudderless and at the mercy of the waves of Fate

P. and R. left to find somewhere for dinner.
S. and C. stayed on to chat about village life.
By the time they left it was dark outside. The moon cast a faint light over the courtyard, Saturn shone brightly to it's left...

I wandered back inside and tuned the radio to The BBC

change of plan...

I'd washed the floors, an everyday chore now that I have tiles that show the dirt, cleaned the windows, walked the dog pack, hung out the washing since the weather forecast is 'favorable', opened up the gite and checked to see if any more lettuces had appeared overnight...

and was about to sit down and blog about something profound, well, profound to me

when R. appeared at the broken gate calling my name
I had been summoned to see A. the elderly neighbour who lives in a small house behind The FVH.

If there's one thing that I have learned during the past 8 1/2 months, it is not to refuse a summons from A.

I closed the dogs in the sitting room, patted down my unruly hair, smoothed down my skirt and trotted down the lane to A.'s house

She was sitting at the table in the kitchen/living room.
As in many older Breton's houses the main business of daily life is conducted from the kitchen table, if they do possess a living room with soft chairs and rugs they never venture into it. Likewise many have a fitted kitchen complete with all appliances and a multitude of conveniences that they do not use, instead they cook their meals over a fire in a tiny smoke-blackened room at the rear.
A. has one small kitchen and a bedroom.
Her home is barely as large as my gite

A life pared down to the bare necessities
et pourquoi pas?

Most of us surround ourselves with unnecessary Things
We seek to comfort and reassure ourselves with our credit-card purchases

I Have, Therefore I Am

I digress, as ever

The reason for A.'s summons was not, it transpired, her bruised and battered face, nor her right arm in its blue sling. I tried to ask her about her injuries. What had happened? Where was I at the time? Had she tried to contact me by our agreed signal of her hammering on the never-used back door?

She shrugged me off and her eyes filled with tears

"A. qu'est ce que c'est?" I asked timidly

In a wavering voice and a mixture of Breton and French with many 'tu as compris?' she told me that her sister had died. She bit her quivering lip as she informed me that the funeral would be held on Tuesday. She wiped away a tear as she instructed me to be at the war memorial at 3:30pm with flowers. And then she looked at me intently as she declared that I am to follow the procession, in a strictly pre-arranged order as befits my standing in the village and in her life, down the hill and to the cemetery. My daughter will also be present.

She looked at me
"tu as compris?"
"Oui, A. je comprends, je serai là, avec ma fille et des fleurs'

I asked her if she needed anything.
Could I make her dinner this evening?
Should I stay and help her?
Was there anything that I could do?

No, she replied.
Just be sure to be there on Tuesday
It is important
She was my sister

As I left we were both weeping

becoming French...

I think it's started.
The process whereby I become, peu à peu, French.
Which both fascinates and concerns me.

Fascinates because I have started to observe myself and other people from the stance of an anrthopologist, or maybe a biologist watching life forms under a microscope, for which I blame too many hours spent studying and reading and not enough time cutting the grass and weeding the flower beds...

and concerns because I plan on moving to another EU state in a few years time and I'm not sure I can really be a Culture Chameleon, swapping identities along with with car registrations and languages...

Anyway, why do I think i am becoming French?

1. I am now obsessed with documents.
In England I kept a piece of paper, a bill, receipt, official letter long enough only to glance at it (save for bank statements that were never opened on principle since the colour red first thing in the morning gave me a headache) before taking it outside to burn.
In France I have a burstingly-full tote bag of the pieces of paper that I have, thus far, accumulated. I have to keep everything. My EDF bill orders me to store it for a minimum of 5 years. When I buy anything new I have to keep the receipt for insurance purposes. When I bought the new car I was buried under an avalanche of documents that are still sliding down the mountain and threatening to engulf me.

Today I spent an hour sorting and filing last week's new additions.
My tote bag bursteth.
I am going to have to buy a filing cabinet

2. I am fast losing the work-ethic.
In this part of France (rural Brittany) at least, people just don't take work seriously. No, that's not fair. The farmers work all day and every day and very hard. When I say seriously I don't mean they're lazy or work-shy, far from it, it's just that they take a break at lunchtime, close the shop or office and disappear to enjoy a proper meal, at the end of the day they stop working and, as happens in May, when there is a bank holiday the whole place grinds to a halt.

And so far this month we have had three public holidays and there are more to come.

When I tell my French friends that I used to sit cross-legged on my bed until midnight to sort out client's diagnostics and fixes on my old laptop they look incredulous. When I describe working through lunch with a sandwich and a bar of Dairy Milk for company they look scandalised. And when I admit to having worked at weekends to accomodate product trials in countries that don't see Sunday as special then they back away in horror.

It is no wonder they tell me, that I was stressed when I arrived in France.
Now they understand

After almost 9 months I have lost my worry-lines and anxious lip-biting.
And I don't wake in the night in a panic over a client's PTF (program temporary fix)
Neither do I twitch when the phone rings

French people seem to have a healthier attitude to work
although it's wrong to generalise and, as I said to the Ex when he declared that he didn't like the French '"So, you've met them all, have you?"

3. I spend too much money on skin-care products
I don't actually use them all, not yet, but I have become a victim of the advertising hype and firmly believe that life will be one long ball if I banish my wrinkles, pump up my cellulose and exercise my epidermis

I do draw the line at anti-cellulite treatments, liver tonics and those little packets of herbs that are said to aid dieting

But that could change

I also buy scarves and neat shoes and wouldn't be seen dead in trainers unless I am engaged in a sporting activity.
which is never, at least not until I brave the surgeon's knife and get my knee fixed

4. I can now produce a very passably Gallic shrug accompanied by that small explosive sound that is produced to indicate derision, sarcasm, an absence of approval and a comment on the weather

I like to reserve this mannerism for people who refuse to overtake on blind bends, double-park on corners or take more than two seconds to pack their shopping...
(No, not really)

I could go on, I usually do, but it's not raining today, for a change, and I would like to go an work in the vegetable garden before the next Atlantic storm hits us.

The peas need netting
The peppers need re-potting
and I just KNEW I'd end up with over-crowded lettuces jostling for space
I AM eating them as fast as I can but the darned things seem to re-appear overnight

à bientôt

feeling my age...

Writing that last post led me to reflect on how the world is changing and how the speed of that change seems to be accelerating daily.

Will it reach a 'terminal velocity' when we humans are, as a species, simply unable to create or produce faster than we do now, will we finally reach The Technological Goal when we finally have all that we want and need and decide Enough, or will we continue our feverish quest for The Ultimate Thing that we simply can't live without

When I was a child...

Here we go

When I was a child we didn't have a telephone, or a car, or central heating, fitted carpets, an automatic washing machine or colour television. There were no video recorders, record players, iPods, mobile phones, home computers....

If my parents wanted to speak to a relative they walked up the road to the bright red phone box that always smelt like a lavatory, fed the machine with those little silver sixpences, stuck a finger in the dial and pulled it round. But phone calls were usually limited to calling out the doctor when my brothers and I developed a rash or a fever and not always then since my parents never liked 'to bother the doctor' unless the rash had completely covered every surface of our bodies or the thermometer hit 105 degrees. The afternoon that I leapt off the back of the sofa, missed my brother's back and hit the floor so awkwardly that I broke my tibia in several places my mother lifted me into an old pram and pushed me four miles to the surgery so as not to inconvenience the doctor.

Central heating wasn't a standard until 1968 when we moved to a brand new house in Newcastle On Tyne. Until then we were used to a small fire in the grate, an electric heater in the bathroom for our twice weekly baths and scraping the ice off the inside of the bedroom window. If it was really cold we were allowed to get dressed in front of an electric bar heater, the kind that left scorch marks on the backs of our legs so that we looked like we'd been griddled. During the winter of 1963 it was so cold in the kitchen that the eggs on the worktop froze solid during the night

The car came, when I was 8, in the form of one of those half-timbered models with sliding windows and no heating, carpets, radio or, often, windscreen wipers. My parents took to driving from Banbury to Cornwall for holidays and such was their excitement and nervousness that they would drive through the night to avoid the remote possibility of meeting another car along the way. We kids went to bed as usual at 8pm and at around 2am my father would carry us, still sleeping, and place us in the back of the car. At some time during the next morning we'd wake up startled to find ourselves in our PJ's in the middle of some strange town surrounded by shoppers and people going to work. To this day I have nightmares that I wake up in Wells in a flimsy nightie, which is why I sometimes take the precaution of wearing thick PJ's to bed.

The day that our first black and white TV was delivered by three large, strong men with a large lorry coincided with the first edition of Doctor Who and The Daleks. I remember it well. The ceremonial plugging-in of the set, the endless wait while my father tuned it and a neighbour sat up on the roof twiddling with the aerial. We kids sat in front of 'the box' in great excitement with egg and cress sandwiches and slices of Marks and Spencer's angel cake as a treat. Unfortunately my first viewing experience was not very long. At the first sight of a dalek I was so terrified that I fled behind the sofa where I 'had an accident' and had to be taken out of the room in hysterics. The daleks still terrify me to this day, though I have learned better self-control.

In those days TV started just before lunchtime with children's programmes such as Andy Pandy and Rag, Tag and Bobtail and ended at around midnight when the picture slowly disappeared into a little white dot in the centre of the screen. I know, I saw it once when my grandmother let me sleep on her sofa and I watched it until The National Anthem and the presenter's Goodnight Britain. We had two channels, The BBC and ITV. The news was broadcast at one o'clock, six o'clock and ten and they never showed dead bodies or let people swear. At least not on the BBC. We rarely watched ITV because my father thought that the BBC's programmes would be more educational and since he had to pay a license fee for the BBC he wanted to get value for his money

I think that when I was a small child (pre TV) you could count the number of electrical appliances we owned on the fingers of one hand and still have two left over...
an iron, an electric fire and a washing machine...

And not even an automatic washing machine. Ours was one of those that you pulled out from under the formica cupboard, filled with a rubber hose attached to the hot water tap, powdered it with Daz and then loaded in the clothes. A central arm would go back and forth to agitate the laundry and then when the water was dirty enough it would be pulled out and rinsed and put through a mangle before being hung out to dry for three weeks. Washing was only ever done on a Monday because it took all day and most of the evening and my mother couldn't face the prospect of it more than once a week. Besides, we had Sunday's roast cold with chips for 'tea' on a Monday so cooking didn't get in the way of mangling...

When I was a child every summer was sunny and every Christmas was white.

At least that's how I remember it

Sometime during the last 20 years my childhood suddenly acquired the label of 'old-fashionned'and I can't for the life of me work out when or why.

Perhaps it was the sudden acquisition of PC's in every home, the access to the internet, mobile phones and global communications

Perhaps it just happened naturally after twenty-five years

Maybe the slow but inexorable disappearance of the older generation, MY older generation, that pushed me into a senior position even at the age of 40 altered something...

You know how the season don't seem to gradually flow into each other, how the planet doesn't appear to spin smoothly on it's axis but instead turns corners, one day it's winter and then suddenly the days are longer and it's spring?

Well I think that's what happened to my past

One day it was familiar and close and I still felt like the same person I was 8 years old and then, all of a sudden, it had slipped into another time zone, another era and I felt my age

Of course that doesn't stop me from climbing trees, skiing too fast, dancing barefoot and skinny-dipping when no-one's around

Feeling my age doesn't mean I have, necessarily, to act it

n'est-ce pas?

Hello The World, from Brittany with love..

Living in rural Brittany, where the locals don't even consider themselves to be French, can be a rather isolating experience. So from time to time I take a quick peek at the online newspapers published in other countries and cultures before returning to my raincoats and wellington boots life here.


India interests me enormously. Especially Indian English and the cultural aspects of that form of the language, so I read many online news articles from that part of the world. Here's a topical one from The Times Of India concerning a report from the British mental health charity Mind:

"Walk in greens to beat blues"

Feeling down in the dumps lately? Just grab a backpack and head into the nearest woods. For, a walk in the country is an effective alternative to chemical antidepression treatment, a leading mental health charity said on Monday, calling on British doctors to prescribe outdoor activities.

It found that 71% reported decreased levels of depression and anxiety after the outdoor walk while 90% said their self-esteem increased.

This compared with 22% who said their stress levels increased, 50% who felt more tense and 44% whose self-esteem plummeted while indoors.

and finally the 'cultural angle' that indicates the things that are important in India...

For those couch potatoes who wallow in self pity after a round of depressing movies or maybe India’s loss in a cricket match, a walk in the greens may not only boost their spirits but also provide some much-needed excercise and fresh air. And in India, where psychiatric diseases are on the rise, the option of a hike in the forest comes across as a much cheaper alternative. "


I have never been to Seattle but I love it. It seems to be such a vibrant, eco-friendly, close-to-nature city, their concerns match my own and Seattle appears to have as much rain as Brittany, so I read the Seattle Times regularly and maybe one day I'll swap houses with someone over there for a few weeks...

Here's an article from their Living section that caught my eye because it concerns two of my favourite things, kids and gardens:


"Encouraging kids to garden: Let's go play in the dirt!

Gardening can be a great activity to include in your child's summer. It can serve as structured, educational play that lays the foundation for a lifelong appreciation of nature and the environment. "

Read the rest here Link


Over to Finland, and in Helsingen Sanomat's this headline shows that President Bush is still about as diplomatically savvy as ever...

"Bush rejects Halonen request for a meeting

The United States has declined a Finnish request for a meeting between President Tarja Halonen and US President George W. Bush this week. At the same time, a meeting was arranged with Swedish Prime Minister Fredrik Reinfeldt, who is scheduled to meet Bush today, Tuesday.

According to the office of the President, Finland had asked about the possibility of a meeting with the US President during Halonen's visit to the United States. The request was turned down for scheduling reasons.

Scheduling problems are routinely invoked in international diplomacy to turn down a proposed meeting.

Read the rest Here


The other day I called in on Iran to check out their domestic news. The website informed me that there WAS no domestic news that day. There is some cultural news today as published in The Tehran Times Culture section

"Spanish artist to depict Khayyam’s thoughts

Spanish artist Jose Luis Lopez, who visited the mausoleum of Omar Khayyam in Neyshabur on Monday, announced that he intends to depict the thoughts of Khayyam. Luis plans to depict Khayyam’s thoughts in an art-form entitled “The Sky of Khayyam....

Friday, May 18 marks the national day of the great Iranian poet Omar Khayyam."

I never knew... here's the Link


A new friend commented recently
"You must be good at maths to have worked in I.T"
to which I replied that the best indicators of suitability for that field of work are language proficiency and musical ability. Which just means that I am useless at maths.
So here's a something from Al-Ahram in Cairo:

"The Ahmes code

The mathematical system in ancient Egypt was application-oriented, devised -- complete with fractions -- to manage practical matters. Assem Deif sums up the old methods "

I WILL try to follow the rest of the article Here or I may go play my flute instead!


Isn't the internet fantastic?

Hey, it's stopped raining!

more bureaucracy

I had been dreading today's brush with bureaucracy so I'd delayed and postponed the visit as long as I could.

At lunchtime I changed into my 'serious skirt', wrapped a nice scarf around my neck, sprayed perfume all over and set off, teeth gritted and filled with grim determination and a sense of resignation

The office was crowded.
A nice woman listened to my life story and then handed me one of those little pink tickets with a number on it, the same ones that they give you in Carrefour when you want to buy cheese, and suggested I sit down and prepare to wait

My number was 079

As I sat down I glanced at the man next to me, raised my ticket and my eyebrows and he responded by revealing the number on his ticket 069...
I nodded as if he had just shared an important secret

and so we waited.
The Ragazza and I chatted in English
The French sat and tried to follow what we were saying
Mostly they didn't keep up with us, judging by their blank expressions

Occasionally an official appeared, called out the French equivalent of 'Next Please' and disappeared in the expectation that one of us would rise and follow. The problem was that no-one knew which number was Next, nor the number of the previous person so there was a silence, followed by a muttering and then everyone seemed to consider leaping up all at once before falling back in resigned apathy.

I couldn't bear the suspense.

I held up my ticket and announced 'Je suis 079'
It was as if I had stood up and turned on a tap because everyone came alive and began excitedly to call out their own numbers and we managed to agree that the man in glasses opposite me would go next, followed by me and then a little woman in a bright-red coat.

This seemed to be perfectly acceptable to all gathered there even though I had arrived last and there were several other people holding tickets with numbers in the 90's who had already been seated when I arrived....

Curious

Then it dawned on me

There were two officials dispensing tickets from different books. Some of us had tickets up to 084, the earlier arrivals had been given tickets that started at 90

I considered passing on this nugget of info to the rest of the crowd but decided against it. I didn't want to be responsible for the riot that would follow.

When my turn came around I rose and followed the severe-looking official into his office. I felt like a naughty schoolgirl who had been summoned to see the headmistress. I explained my situation and waited...
The official looked at me and shrugged

There is no problem, Madame

and so I skipped out of the office, past the people still waiting and into the steady drizzle...

hello?

So, here's the thing

Everywhere I go there are people telling me how darned-near impossible it is to earn a living in France.

At lunch with friends on Sunday, over drinks with a neighbour, in the street while walking the dogs, after today's Tai Chi session at The FVH the conversation was all the same...

How jobs are impossible to find
Especially jobs that pay a living wage

How even if a person manages to set up a business and attract some customers the French state will step in and tax it out of existence

How I may as well give up, cut my losses, abandon The FVH and scuttle back to England and join the dole queue

Isn't there ANYBODY in France making a success of their lives?

small steps...

Since I would like to teach English one day and as several people have, perhaps foolishly, already asked me to help them and I haven't felt ready to follow up on their requests, and in the interests of 'putting my money where my linguistic mouth is', I have found myself a pupil...

Well, The Ragazza found me a pupil. It was she who noticed the advertisement in the local small magazine for someone to help with English in return for an ally against French bureaucracy and a tutor in the language.

So on Saturday I gathered together all of my courage, which isn't much, I AM a mouse after all, and called the number. Of course she was out and so I left a rather garbled and unscripted message which must have been partially intelligible, at least my own phone number was right, because C. called back and we arranged to meet.

Today she came to The FVH so that we could (secretly) sum each other up and decide if this would work. If we would be simpatici and she is lovely! In fact she is a French version of a friend in England called Maggie!

I'm afraid that we chattered away mostly in French although I did coax her into a little in English but, over my appalling coffee and Intermarche's delicious little chocolate biscuits, we seemed to hit it off and so we have come to an agreement

We will meet on a weekly basis alternating between French conversation at her house and a more formal study of an English course that she has taken in the past, at The FVH, and I will work on some set themes for her to tackle as homework

as a bonus C. will help The Ragazza to take her first tentative steps in French

I am not, yet, qualified and certified to teach.
That will come next year with a proper French-approved course. I have learned that you get nowhere in France without a proper certification, la formation is SO important here

But this is a casual, unpaid and purely-for-pleasure first step and I'm really excited.

(Those people who know me will vouch for my enthusiasm and excitement, even in matters of software sales and problem determination and please, don't get me onto The Product or CICS!)

A real, live French person wants me to help her to speak English

Gosh! As we used to say back in England in the 1960's.
Golly gosh!

A Eurovision History/Geography Lesson

(picture from Wikepedia)

On Saturday evening The Ragazza and I sat down to watch The Eurovision Song Contest.

I am not a regular viewer of this annual 'competition' but since this year it was held in Finland (Hyvää päivää Helsinki! I'm waving...)and as we are now Continental Europeans rather than insular British Islanders, we felt it our duty to watch it.

Is it me or has the standard of song-writing, in many instances, fallen so low as to be non-existent? Consider the French, Turkish and British entries, (let's hope that Flying The Flag doesn't become associated with British Airways!).

In my humble opinion I could have written better music and lyrics and, I am pretty confident that I could have produced a more tuneful noise than the Irish woman who appeared to have 'perdu le clef de sa voix' to paraphrase a French nursery rhyme.

And the costumes?
Men with stuffed cats draped around their shoulders, a drummer with wings and as for the Ukrainian drag queen, well... les mots m'echappent!

and that woman dressed like a pink Barbie doll!
why didn't someone swat her with a bunch of birch twigs???

Full marks, though, to the Spanish boy band who were SO cute...
I liked the woman who sat on a suitcase and sang...
and I was pleased to see that the Finnish people are all as crazy as I remembered

but, am I getting SO old?

For us the evening turned into a geography/history lesson as voting took place

"OK, so why did Macedonia vote for those countries?"
"Well, Geography, Macedonia was, until 1991, part of Yugolslavia and so were the countries they voted for"

"OK, so who will Iceland vote for?"
"Well, Finland for sure, they're part of the Nordic gang..."

"Who's going to vote for us?
"US as in the UK? Probably no-one. Not just because the UK is an island but I'm guessing that our involvememt in Iraq has made us the pariahs of Europe. Of course, we will get douze points from Malta"
"Why?"
"History. Malta was part of the British Empire. English is an official language. They like the Brits"

and so it came to pass...

vote after vote following the historical or geographical contours of the continent

Cyprus still loves Greece
Many Germans have holiday homes in Turkey
Malta gave douze points to the UK...

The Ragazza was scandalised.
It's not fair!

Oh but it is daughter of mine.
It is democratic and open to all to have their say

And if the countries of the former USSR and Yugoslavia feel a closeness
if no-one supports The United Kingdom
if the western Europen states no longer rule the roost
and if English was the language chosen by many non-English speaking countries

then the votes cast by the people of Europe is an excellent barometer of public opinion and a good indication of cultural values

it's just a shame that many of the songs were so dreadful, n'est-ce pas?

how many cubits of wood was that?

Yesterday, during a break in the rain, I walked around my garden.

The vegetables in the wooden boxes are thriving, albeit jostling for space and with one or two greenfly and the lacy-leaves that point the finger at uninvited slugs feasting during the darkness. There will, however, be no pellets, no poisons sprayed on this bit of Brittany. My garden is totally organic and so I will have to make do with pots of beer to attract the nightly nibblers to a drunken demise and nature's own pest control wardens in the form of ladybirds and hover flies...

It worked well in the garden in Oxfordshire. After a few years frogs and hedgehogs moved in to eat the well-fed slugs that inhabited my hosta bed and dined at my 'salad bar', while thrushes took the snails that dared to venture forth from the flower beds and ladybirds munched happily on the aphids.

Anyway, I have planted so many lettuces and beans that I think I may actually be grateful for the assistance of a few 'pests' in helping to eat the surplus.

After a wet week that has made everything grow with rampant abandon I'm impatient to get out into the garden. To cut the grass, weed the flower beds and trim the hedges. French people keep their hedges impeccably trimmed, not a single leaf dares to poke out above a perfectly straight clipped line. It is a sort of geometrically precise topiary that must, I'm sure, indicate some Gallic characteristic, when I work it out I'll let you know.

On Friday, en route to the coast, we even saw a hedge trimmed into the shape of a horse. I kid you not. I plan on going back to take a picture soon...

I know that my unruly hedges cause my neighbour J. a degree of anguish as they erupt in a chaos of new growth above his own dead-level yew, but I will not sacrifice flower buds for orderly branches and I will not force a shrub into an unnatural man-made shape.

Not unless I can recreate that horticultural-horse, that is!

There's a thought...
A hedge shaped like animals marching two by two into an Ark (the shed)

I've been thinking of assembling animals and building an ark for the last few days and this morning the rain was SO heavy, so intense, such a sheer sheet of water that gazing out from the kitchen window I felt as if I were peeking out from behind Niagara Falls, and fully expected to see a chap in a barrel go past at any moment.

So, instead of cutting the grass and weeding the over-grown flower bed in the picture (and look VERY closely and you will see the rhubarb that I am desperate to pick and transform into a pie), instead of pottering in the garden in spring sunshine I will be out looking for a pair of unicorns.

I mean, it wouldn't be fair to leave them behind a second time, would it?

anniversaries

19 years ago today I left work to have my first child

9 years ago today I attended an interview at The Company and, the same day, accepted their offer of a job in technical support

2 years ago today I realised that I had wasted the previous 7 years

1 year ago today I finally found the courage to do something about it

To the co-workers, the team leader and the absentee manager who mistook kindness for cowardice, acceptance for agreement and enthusiasm for stupidity...

and to 'The Fool' who taught me, finally, to stand up for myself

Rien ici bas n’est plus souple, moins résistant que l’eau, pourtant il n’est rien qui vienne mieux à bout du dur et du fort

Lao Tseu

sunshine after the rain...

Brittany suffers from a high suicide rate

I'm not sure if this is due to the problems associated with a mainly rural economy in which livelihoods are susceptible to climatic conditions and rogue diseases. Or is it simply the volatile winter weather with frequent storms and days of endless dark rain that depresses people?



The Hindus are said to be highly superstitious and worship a pantheon of gods in an attempt to gain some control over the same meteorological malfunctions that can wipe out whole communities in an instant.

This is my Ganesha, the elephant-headed deity. He provides a kindly attentiveness to the requests of his devotees.

There are, how many, 613?, laws governing how the Jews should behave in their daily lives in order to keep on the good side of their god and avoid incurring his wrath which is, as history shows, fierce indeed 'even unto the sixth generation'.


The ten commandments act as a talisman to Christians. If I don't commit adultery, covet my neighbour's sports car or steal his lawn-mower then All Will Be Well.

It is comforting to feel that The Supreme Being casts a kindly eye over the people whose hearts are pure

And for the aetheists amongst us, there's a lottery-win to pray for and insurance policies to protect them, and for rainy days and Mondays there are savings plans and credit cards with "0% interest for the first twleve months"...

dharma, mitzvah, The Ten Commandments and fully-comprehensive insurance cover...

We are all at the mercy of the higher forces and elements.
We are as strong as the strands of a spider's web
In the next instant any one of us could be gone

In the past I, too, surrounded myself by modern-day spells and amulets.
A fulltime, well-paid job
A pension plan
Life insurance and critical illness cover
then I crossed my finger's and hoped For The Best

That was before I sat helplessly watching all the people to whom I felt closest, Good People, the people that I loved, succumb to cancers and die. That was before Death swept right past my own door and left his calling card to remind me that he would return one day.

I could run but I could never hide from Fate

So, what's the answer?


Well, in my case, I exchanged the so-called security of my past life for the support and comfort of new, good friends. I swapped software manuals for books on spirituality and traded in the trappings of a 9-5 existence for Time.

And when the rain comes sweeping over the hills from the south, when a westerly storm lashes the village with whip-like winds and electrical flashes, then I turn on my new lamps, light a fire in the stove and a few scented candles and sit down with a book, cats and dogs to wait for the sun to return

Paimpol

Last night's Atlantic storm was fierce and relentless.
The wind howled into the courtyard with a fury and beat against the shutters before taking revenge on the flower pots, hurling the geraniums to the floor and tossing the tubs of lilies off the table.

As usual the latch on the gate broke, snapped off by a gigantic gust. It's the third time this has happened and I am starting to tire of the game

I was oblivious to the midnight mayhem. My bedroom is in the back half of the house and that is sheltered by the stone walls of the four neighbouring properties. Once I close my window and drop the shutter I am cocooned in total darkness and silence. Armageddon could be unleashed in Central Brittany and I would be oblivious until I rise and pull up the shutter again

This morning R. appeared bright and early to tut-tut over the broken gate.
He would, he declared, fix it.
And was he invited to join us for the meal today?
I thanked him for his offer of help and told him, gently, non, aujourd'hui est pour les filles.
Besides, R. jokes just a little too much about his love for me and his intention to move into the FVH for my comfort and I am learning that, as a divorced woman with no man around, I need to take care not to be the cause of tongue-wagging and gossip

We had waited a few days for the hangovers to subside before taking my neighbour N. out for a celebratory birthday lunch. Since she had, several times, declared her love of the sea and her desire to live in a little house on the coast we decided to take her to Paimpol for some fresh fishy food by the harbour.
It would satisfy her maritime longings and also serve as a trip down Memory Lane for me since it was during a holiday in that same town two years ago that I made the decision to abandon a career that was killing me and move to France.

The Breton countryside is particularly beautiful at this time of year.
The trees are dressed in fresh green leaves. The fields are full of strong new crops. Contented cattle graze on lush grass and every house is surrounded by a riot of colour as flowers appear in beds and boxes, pots and tubs. Even the overcast skies and spasmodic showers of rain couldn't dampen the beauty of the landscape as we drove north to the coast

The harbour at Paimpol was half-full of boats, all bobbing on wind-swept waves and with their rigging flapping like watery windchimes in the strong breeze. English tourists wandered around the port, chubby white legs sticking out of badly-cut shorts. French women wearing cropped trousers and neat little striped canvas shoes glanced at them and half-smiled. A French woman would not be seen dead in shorts unless her legs are tanned and toned and as sleek as an Arab filly's forelegs.

We chose a restaurant and sat down to observe our neighbouring diners tucking into plates of oysters, bowls of langoustine and large serving bowls in the shape of blue boats full of crabs and prawns and winkly-things in shells. Even if you don't like shellfish. Even if you never eat them, just sitting watching so many people tuck into their fruits de mer feels like a healthy pastime, as if one can absorb the zinc and vitamins from the very air around them.

N. ordered an aperitif, a martini, so I felt obliged to drink a kir so that she wouldn't think the English uncivilised and then we ate a typically French lunch, several courses, all fresh and perfectly cooked and delicious...
grilled sardines with thin slices of bread and butter
oysters in the half-shell
grilled skate and salad
steaks and frites
creme caramels and large frothy coffee...

I would have liked to have eaten lobster. I have adored lobster ever since the day The Bostonian took me for a lobster lunch by the harbour in his home-town, but I'd already seen them sitting in their tank, claws tied, faces resigned, I couldn't bring myself to be the one responsible for their sudden demise in a pan of boiling water and so, today, lobster was off...

After lunch we walked the quaint little tourist lanes, marvelling at pottery and expensive shoes and a shop selling Algerian goods. In one shop there was an amusing painting of three cows, viewed from the rear and we laughed and bent over and declared it to be a picture of we three and then blushed as a rather handsome man walked past and overheard us...

N. found a house for sale.
Two bedrooms and no garden for 250,000 euros!
Scandalous
But, I pointed out, it IS next to the beach, you pay for the heavenly location

When we arrived home R. was loitering in the drive
Did you eat well? he asked
Oui
His expression was a little sulky
He had been unable to repair the gate while we were out enjoying our meal in Paimpol
Somehow the news didn't surprise me

tant pis

La Poste and The Past

We were sitting in the car outside La Poste at 9:54am waiting for the postmistress to arrive...

We'd already seen the postman when I almost collided with his yellow van as I reversed out of the drive at The FVH. If I'd hit him it wouldn't be my first accident with a bright yellow vehicle. On the day that my mother died I managed not to see a large yellow camper van that was two feet in front of me and hit it head-on. And that was even before I received The Phone Call from my brother.

My mother is often in my thoughts.
Regrets, memories both good and bad, Things I Wish I Had Done Differently
Please, take time to call your own mother and tell her how special she is to you...

Some days I ask for A Sign
Of forgiveness for my lack of comprehension, my too-busyness, my failings
Please, Mutti, let me know you understand and it's ok...
That you are ok

Meanwhile, back to Here and Now, the postman emerged from his van, shook my hand and handed me a large parcel from Amazon. Did I know that yesterday he had left another parcel at La Poste? Had I been to collect it yet? No? Well, in that case, follow his yellow van and he would regulate the situation'

I don't know if all French postmen are caring and concerned for their customers but ours certainly is and we have learned that it so best to comply

So we complied. Even though we were already late for The Ragazza's French class and despite the fallen tree that was lying across our driveway and causing R. to scratch his head and mutter in a Gallic fashion...

As the church clock struck 10am I tried the door of La Poste.
It was locked
The postman, sitting in his yellow van, looked scandalised.
10am and still not open! He checked his watch with an air of annyoance and tutted.
I simply shrugged and got back into the car to open my parcel and wait patiently.

At 10:06am the post mistress arrived flustered and apologetic
I could see that she was clutching another larger Amazon parcel and that it was in a state of disarray. Had she taken it home for safe keeping?

The postman unfurled his 6' + frame from his van and walked across the tarmac towards the woman in the manner of John Wayne about to confront a baddie in a black cowboy hat

Words were muttered, words that obviously involved 'dix heures' and 'en retard' and then he took the unruly parcel from her and walked over to my car

He was shocked, he said, by the state of the parcel
Surely this damage had not occured while it made its way through the workings of French postal system?
Did I agree?

I agreed.
Those darned British postmen!
You just can't trust them, can you?

He handed me the parcel and then asked that I sign several forms to confirm that I was happy with its contents, that I absolved La Poste of all responsibility for the condition of the wrappings and that I wouldn't hold it against him personally.

I duly signed and he, satisfied that all would now be well, got back in his yellow van and continued on his rounds

The parcel contained three books that The Ragazza had ordered
I switched on the ignition, turned to my daughter and held out my own book
"Dolly, please take my Egyptian Book Of The Dead"

As we drove away I noticed the dashboard clock was displaying the date 12:06:2007
My mother's birthday...

T'ai Chi at The FVH

Yin : 陰 or 阴; literally "shady place, north slope (hill), south bank (river); cloudy, overcast") is the dark element: it is passive, dark, feminine, downward-seeking, and corresponds to the night.

Yang (陽 or 阳; yáng; "sunny place, south slope (hill), north bank (river); sunshine") is the bright element: it is active, light, masculine, upward-seeking and corresponds to the day.

Yin is often symbolized by water or earth, while yang is symbolized by fire or wind.
(Wikepedia)

T'ai Chi in the lounge at the FVH...

I'd pushed one of the sofas against a wall to create a large space for the three of us to move freely, confined the Tibetans to a puppy cage, turned on the lamps and set the video ready to play.

I had considered burning some relaxing oils, patchouli perhaps, but the last time I used the oil burner was in the house in Oxfordshire and I set fire to the curtains, a rug and the top layer of paint on the French windows. I am, therefore, reluctant to repeat the episode just yet

Candles in the fireplace would have provided flickering flames on which to focus, next time...

We are amateurs.
The Chi didn't really flow, it dribbled a little and then it dried up
Joints creaked, breathing was irregular, my ability to distinguish between my left and right side abandoned me totally and my concentration was interrupted by occasional excited barks from the dogs and a cat mewing at the window

But we 'practiced' for an hour and then sat cross-legged and calm to sip coffee and eat cakes.

The next session is scheduled for Tuesday morning when there will be four of us engaged in this 'moving meditation'

The physical and mental benefits of Tai Chi are impressive:
Reduces stress
Increases flexibility
Improves muscle strength and definition
Increases energy, stamina and agility
Increases feelings of well-being

Combats anxiety and depression
Improves sleep
Reduces blood pressure
Slows down bone loss in post-menopausal women
Improves cardiovascular fitness
Relieves chronic pain

"A study by doctors at Tufts-New England Medical Center in Boston suggests there is medical evidence to back up those claims.

Their findings are based on a review of studies published in English and Chinese.

"Overall, these studies reported that long-term Tai Chi practice had favourable effects on the promotion of balance control, flexibility and cardiovascular fitness and reduced the risk of falls in elders," the researchers said.

They said the martial art helped to reduce "pain, stress and anxiety in healthy subjects".

But it also had benefits for people with serious conditions, such as heart disease and high blood pressure.

"Benefits were reported by the authors of these studies in cardiovascular and respiratory function in healthy subjects and in patients who had undergone coronary artery bypass surgery as well as in patients with heart failure, hypertension, acute myocardial infarction, arthritis and multiple sclerosis."
BBC

For me it's about taking a little time out to slow down and focus on my body and breathing. As an over-anxious over-achiever I find that breathing is not something I do well. It tends to be fast and shallow and all my energy is focused in my thoughts.

So it is good to feel grounded and calm for at least one hour a week

(and yes, it IS still raining here in Brittany)

the post that isn't...

I was going to write a long and 'intelligent' post about patriotism, racism and why, in these days of melting ice-caps, famine, global pandemics and terrorism, we should stop judging people by the colour of their skin, the language that they speak and the beliefs that they hold sacred, and unite as Human Beings to tackle the problems that our actions have caused the planet...

I was going to, but that was before my neighbour R. turned up yesterday evening to 'escort' The Ragazza and I to his wife's birthday aperitif session.

Suffice to say that yesterday evening I danced with R. and have lost my 'deux pieds gauches' crown and am now known as 'Twinkle Toes'

The Ragazza asked for a window to be opened, in French

The English danced to YMCA while the French looked on in disbelief

Everyone sang the Marseillaise

The French residents of the village stayed up way past their 10 o'clock bedtime

and I think I may have been set up for a date with a certain S.
Watch this space...

In vain do I tell these French people into whose previously sane lives I have dropped, unannounced and uninvited, in vain do I tell them 'I Am Not A Party Person' and 'I am an anti-social loner'

and it's true
I don't DO parties
(though it seems I DO DO the can-can in the kitchen)

When I worked for The Company they called me The Olympic Flame because I never went out

Before I moved to France I hadn't gone out since October 2005, or was it 2004? It could even have been 2003...

So how is it that every week we are either hosting or attending a dinner, aperitifs, a party?
Could it be that I have, finally, Got A Life?

Got to run, this morning some female friends are coming here for our first session of The FVH T'ai Chi Club and I need to make the place less canine and more Zen
.
Not so much 'Ladies Who Lunch' as 'Ladies Who Simply Are'

8 mai 2007

Of course, there had been clues...


As we left The FVH en route to The Posh Town we passed le maire heading in the direction of the village centre.

Our friend B. was flying French, British and German flags in his back garden

Outside the mairie two tricolours flapped in the strong Breton breeze that today carried salt-laden moisture from the Atlantic coast.

Two more flags flanked the war memorial.

And flowers lay at its feet

Today in France it is a public holiday.
On this day sixty-two years ago the war in Europe officially ended.

"At 02:41 on the morning of, May 7th, 1945, at the SHAEF headquarters in Rheims, France, the Chief-of-Staff of the German Armed Forces High Command, General Alfred Jodl, signed the unconditional surrender documents for all German forces to the Allies. All active operations were to cease at 23:01 Central European Time on May 8 1945. "
(Wikepedia)

It is difficult for me to imagine how terrible life must have been when the Germans invaded.

I have heard a few stories of young men marched out of the village neverto be seen again.

By the railway track nearby there is a memorial to a dozen or so members of The Resistance who were 'executed' on that spot by German soldiers.

My elderly neighbour, A. recounts how young girls and women were hidden in attics to keep them safe from the lustful intentions of the invaders who strutted the village streets

The names of the young men of the commune engraved on the village war memorial bears witness to the insanity of war

The next time a non-French person makes some 'funny remark' about France's war records...
The next time I hear some snide quip along the lines of 'It isn't a world war until France surrenders'...
I swear I will slap them!

Bravo Sarko?

The Ragazza and I had been invited to celebrate a 40th wedding anniversary yesterday.
We arrived on time, in France it is not polite to be late, well, perhaps 2 or 3 minutes late because it took me a while to wrap the gift this being the one occasion when I wasn't asked "c'est pour offrir?" by the sales assistant, and since we had stopped to peep through the open door of the mairie at a French citizen casting her vote.

When we arrived we walked into a room full of French people who were all standing in a line facing us and I, in a characterisitic fit of the shyness that has dogged me all my life, couldn't bring myself to walk around shaking hands and kissing them all, especially since one of them was the maire. Instead I backed out of the room grinning sheepishly in the manner of one who was walked in on the host naked, and into the kitchen where my attempts to lose myself in the washing-up (my usual party fun) were thwarted by the lack of dirty dishes.

I tidied a tray of salted snacks, rearranged the salad bowls, petted one of the dogs, took a deep breath and returned to the assembled crowd.

They all seemed to be expecting something of me so I smiled in my Village Idiot fashion and made the gesture of blowing a kiss to all and that seemed to suffice. But it wouldn't Do. I didn't come to France to play the shrinking violet or shy English woman. I've spent the last 50 years hiding in the kitchen at parties, assez!

Fortified by a couple of glasses of Kir Royal and an amusing interchange with a Welshman I threw caution to the wind and sat myself down amongst a group of French people.
"Sarko ou Sego?" was sufficient to ignite a heated debate although it was impossible to determine the political leanings of anyone seated around the table

I'd heard that the farmers support Sarko and that the elderly feel safer with Sego...
I know that my friends who try to earn a living in France had been praying for Sarko to win to boost the economy while the rest were firmly for Sego but French people do not openly express their political preferences.

There are non of the mini posters that the English paste in their windows at election time
People don't wear party badges or ribbons
Politics is a private affair in France

At least it is here, deep in rural Brittany where people still declare themselves to be Breton first and French a very poor second

Hours later I sat watching the BBC coverage of the election

It was so close
53% to 47%
Is it possible to govern a country that is so evenly split?

Sego had promised riots in the streets if Sarko won and so it came to pass. Yesterday evening, while Sarko's people celebrated with a party in Place de la Concorde there were disturbances in Paris, Nantes and several other cities as teenagers, remembering past insults, sought to express their contempt.

Not in our village though.
When The Ragazza and I walked les chiens at 10pm swallows were swooping overhead, the sky was just light enough for us to be able to walk without torches and all of the French were safely 'shuttered' and tucked up in bed watching their favourite sopa operas.
Anyway, the only other teenager in the village was doing his homework

encore une fois...

I was about to type that 'a feeling of déja vu' has descended on the village as the French residents prepare, once again, to exercise their droits démocratiques, but this time only two posters remain on the wall in place de la mairie and the former feeling of excitement seems to have been replaced by one of determination and resignation





To remain on the Right or take a sharp turn to The Left

That is the question



This BBC website carries a succinct list of the candidates proposed policies amongst them:

Sarkozy:
Exempt overtime (above 35 hours) from taxes and social security charges
Allow workers to retire at the age they want
Potentially remove benefits from those who turn down work

Simplify EU farming subsidies and link payments to actual market prices for products

Financed by: Cut civil service, costs of which account for 45% of government budget


Royal:
Minimum wage to rise by about 250 euros ($325) to 1,500 euros per month
Raise basic state pension by 5%
Jobless to receive 90% of salary for first year of unemployment

No increase in general taxation
Lower tax burden on companies that create jobs
"Consolidate" 35-hour week

Financed by: economic growth of 2.5% every year over next five years

Regardless of who wins and who loses everyone agrees that Something Must Be Done, preferably something that doesn't affect the French way of life or damage the wonderful healthcare system

on verra

upbeat and enthusiastic? moi?

The DailyOm Horoscope

Socializing with friends today could have you feeling upbeat and enthusiastic about life in general. From this place of joy and security, you may feel a greater ability to be outgoing to connect with people who aren't part of your inner circle. In larger group settings, you may find yourself feeling truly gregarious, as if your energy is so boundless that others must help you utilize it. In some ways, you are an energy source that brings light to your surroundings, not only through your glow but by shining your light upon those around you. This connection to many at once enables you to make a large gathering feel intimate. By sharing your enthusiasm for life with others today, you can energize and uplift friends and strangers alike.

Today the Ragazza and I went to The Posh Town to have a second Brush with Bureaucracy.
We arrived at The Office to find several other people already waiting to see the same Official, a fact that was instantly evident because they were carrying suitcases full of documents and had their cuffs already rolled up in anticipation of a fracas.

"Are the French friendly?" is a question I am often asked

Well, when we entered everyone looked up and said 'Bonjour' so I'd say Yes
Everyone except for the woman sitting behind the sign marked 'accueille' (Welcome) who refused to acknowledge us. I told myself that hers must be a stressful job. At least when I faced the wrath of dissatisfied software users it was from the safety of a telephone receiver, she has to sit a mere centimetres from her frustrated folk.

I was a little concerned that I would have to conduct my business in full earshot of the assembled throng, not that they looked unduly nosey but the sound of my English accent speaking French was sure to excite their interest. When it was my turn to approach Madame Accueille I tried to follow the same script as the previous week but she merely sighed and handed me a slip of paper that informed me that:

I was welcome
"I would be seen by the official in room B
My number was 16
My expected wait would be 2 minutes
Please ensure that my Carte Vitale was available for inspection

Boarding would shortly commence
We hope that you enjoy your flight with us and thank you for choosing to Fly French Healthcare"

I sat smiling to myself in that Village Idiot Fashion that I seem, permanently, to have adopted since moving to France, and waited for precisely 2 minutes and just as I was about to complain that I was being delayed my number came up, bingo!

I hadn't read today's horoscope before leaving home so I wasn't expecting to energise and uplift any strangers today and I wasn't to be disappointed.

I sat down opposite my Opponent and battle commenced
I repeated the purpose of my visit in perfect French and produced a thick wad of documents (more than I could possible need but I wasn't going to turn up looking like the kind of woman who doesn't have a thick wad of documents so I had brought everything I could lay my hands on) and placed them on the desk, which creaked under the weight

I was in a winning position...
I couldn't fail...

J'étais ici la semaine prochaine
She interrupted me
Non Madame, vous étiez ici la semaine DERNIÉRE

damn it! I do it every time. In French and in Italian
Last week, next week, never get it right

I looked at her and considered my options.
Had my French been fluent I could have told her that I am a Time Lord and that, in reality, I dwell in the 22nd century and am just popping back to clear up this matter
But then I remembered the time when my joking with Immigration at Logan Airport had very nearly resulted in my being turned around and sent back to Heathrow...

I smiled sheepishly and agreed, yes, it was LAST week, silly me!

She didn't smile back
Instead she demanded Document 1
I placed it on the desk in front of her in the manner of a player in a poker game

Document 2
Ditto

all the way up to Document 6 when she said 'voilá'

What did she mean voilá? I was about to hand her Document 7 and had several more cards up my sleeve including an ace (The bill from EDF) she couldn't call it now!

C'est parfait madame

I'd won.
Even without the ace

I couldn't quite believe it had been so easy but she merely looked at me and informed me that I would receive my winnings (my passport to the fabulous world of French healthcare) LAST MONTH!

I grinned broadly, thanked her nicely, gathered together my documents and loaded them into my wheelbarrow... I considered giving her the bill from EDF as a parting gift but no, one sign of humour from a French official was enough

The socialising with new friends today part came later when we did indeed met new friends, fellow OU students who came to the FVH to meet us, have a drink and a laugh at life...

language malfunctions

The Ragazza can't understand why I am not embarassed by my occasional language-malfunctions, such as the fishy incident in Intermarché, especially as they make HER blush. I try to explain that no-one is judging me and finding me wanting, at least I hope they aren't, rather the French people that I meet like that I speak their language in their country, are gently amused when I stumble over my tenses or when, as occasionally happens, I open my mouth and les mots m'echappent (the words escape me). Fantastic expression and SO appropriate at times....

"If you talk to a man in a language he understands, that goes to his head. If you talk to him in his language, that goes to his heart"
(Nelson Mandela)

So I smile a lot and talk to people. Lots of people. And they, in turn, smile and talk back to me.
It often happens that they feel relaxed enough to offer me a few words in hesitant school-days English, which I love because it is a gesture of friendship and faith.

Sometimes people ask me to translate from French to English
"How would I say such-and-such in English?"
and a mini lesson is born, grammar mingling with giggles

It helps that I find language endlessly fascinating.
At 4 am when sleep eludes me and I feel the need to distract myself until tiredness takes over, I read books about English. Did you know that almost every English noun ending in -tion seems to be derived from a verb. Even those that you think couldn't possibly have a father for a verb have, when you trace the family tree back, usually to its Latin or, interestingly, French roots, a verb somewhere in their ancestry. Of course there ARE exceptions, but so far I can only find Americanised words that seem to have been invented in the last few decades, such as 'nucleation' so I don't count them.

It's 03:42am
Isn't 42 the Messier number of the Orion nebula?

Where was I?

Language...

The ability to speak is that which distinguishes us from the animals.
The sound of human speech proves that we are conscious and intelligent beings

I think, therefore I speak...

The Bible starts with "In the begining was The Word..."
God spoke to Moses ...
The angel Gabriel spoke to Mohammed and told him 'recite'...

When people talk friendships are forged, ideas are exchanged, dreams and visions are shared
While people continue to talk wars are averted

Words are art
Language is beautiful
Especially the Italian language

Speech is a powerful tool.
It can be a healing balm that soothes and comforts
It can be an inspiring source of wisdom
or it can be a weapon to wound us

When you speak the sounds of your words spread through the air as vibrations and I like to think that they never completely disappear. That they continue like ripples on the surface of a pond spreading out into eternity. That the universe is full of the vibrations of all the voices that have ever spoken

Which is why it is important to speak only the truth and in kindness
(and in as many languages as possible!)

"Words are the voice of the heart"
(Confucius)

technical support

My PC is not a well computer

I'm still trying to work my way round the major problem that prevents me from updating windows and, oft times, from even opening them.
Some days Windows stays shuttered.

I DID have a modicum of success when I found a reference to an error message that I was receiving but the "CAUTION following this advice COULD corrupt your operating system" and the reference to my old adversary Reginald Edit made me back away in horror and hide in the cupboard under the main stairs, the cupboard under the other stairs being too full of Boxes Still To Be Emptied...
Still, progress, of a kind

Today's little gem was a failure in IE
So I took off my blogger bonnet and put on my technical support baseball cap and set to work

Event Viewer pointed me to a problem with a font and indicated a h/w issue
Maybe there was another storm last night and the hard drive hiccuped?
I can't be sure, I was sleeping off the effects of a rather riotous aperitif session in the courtyard of the FVH and wouldn't have noticed had an earthquake struck Brittany

I ran a CHKDSK, restarted and tried again
No luck

So I tried Microsoft's Crapnical Support Site
Nothing, rien, niente

So having exhausted my patience I did what any decent techie would do in such circumstances.

I found the failing font file and renamed it to FRED
and all is now well with my world

But, really, this Bodget and Scarper approach to computer maintenance really goes against the grain and I am going to have to sit down and dismantle Windows/XP and rebuild it, soon

Meanwhile I am investigating an alternative to Windows.
Enough is, as they say, Enough!

But these problems with Microsoft's Bitnical Support made me ponder.
The reason why it is so hard to get good technical support is that software companies don't see it as an important enough part of their business. It may earn them maintenance revenue and that may be a large part of their bread and butter income but they seem to feel that's theirs by some unspoken right. Sales of new software is what causes the bosses to salivate while supporting it afterwards leaves them dry-mouthed and cold.

It was partly this mindset that, eventually, caused me to leave technical support.
Having twenty years experience in the mainframe world, much of it as a systems programmer and SE and then being regarded as an invisible technical support grunt, low status, low respect and low moral became too much to bear

added to which the lack of training, resources and skilled people made providing a good service to the customers pretty much impossible

I happen to think that after-sales support is important and the customer deserves the best.
Not straight-off-the-street trainees
Not lazy and unwilling people
Not cheap off-shore labour
and not unskilled and inexperienced job-hoppers

But people with diagnostic skills, experience of the software as a user, a good level of training and expertise and a willingness to spend their days helping other people to fix their problems

Just my opinion....

fishy business

Wednesday morning is market day in the small market town.
And also the day when the local Intermarché remains open all day.Probably to capture the custom of the Brits who flock to town to buy English-langauge magazines from the shop whose Italian proprietor now converses with me only in his native-tongue (grazie mille!), to wander round the stalls buying fruit, veg and the delicious chicken from that the lady who gives lessons in French pronunciation along with organic eggs, to cluck at the live chickens and tut-tut at the penned rabbits and to sip coffee in the little cafe in the town square.

A great many of these Brits are refugees from the over-priced, over-crowded, over-stressed life Over There in England. Especially older people wo find that they can subsist better in France on their UK pensions. Many people seem to have come to France to escape something bad there rather than to find something good here and live in little enclaves of Englishness.

Many of them prefer not to try to speak French
Which is a shame but leads me into today's foray into French and why I speak it all of the time even if the other party speaks better English than me!

Today we had business to conduct...

A visit to the insurance company with the comprehensive quotes (translated for the builder into French by yours truly) for the roof repairs and to advise that I have had the work done and paid for it already since rain water inside my house makes me twitchy...

A call at the garage to get the permanent registration plates for Flaubert (the Corsa) and would they please, pretty please, fit the ski and bike racks if I take it back another day?...

An important letter to send...

and then coffee at the cafe and a supermarket sweep on order to get provisions for tonight's aperitifs chez nous and some bottles of a nice fizzy for Kir Royals...

Now, considering how health-conscious the French are, their slim shapes (there are very few obese French people in this part of Brittany), their love of skin care products and diet-herbs and liver tonics etc etc, they seem to eat an inordinate amount of tinned and bottled produce.

Practically every vegetable is available processed and bottled and the range of ready-meals in tins is simply stunning to behold!


A shelf of tinned and bottled mushrooms...

How odd t see these wild creatures in captivity in a country that values funghi forays in the woods each autumn.


These suppers all taste pretty much the same so it's hard to know they're duck cassoulet or veal with a mushroom sauce, unless the tin contains sausages and lentils in which case the shape of the 'meat' is a clue...

Today I wanted fresh salmon so I wandered over to the fish counter and pointed..

"Bonjour madame. Je voudrais deux filets SVP"

"Bonjour. Pardon?"

"Deux filets, er deux pavés de salmon. SVP
non, deux pavés du salmon. SVP
non, deux pavés du saumon, SVP"

She burst out laughing and with a twinkle in her eye asked
"Bravo Madame! De pavés de quoi?"

"Cinq crevettes SVP!"

PS

shortly after I posted that last one I was standing in the kitchen when I heard the gate open

I leaned out of the window

There was a small boy about 5 years old standing shyly in the courtyard.
He was clutching a hot handful of brin de muguets , all neatly wrapped in green paper

I wasn't going to make his job TOO easy

"Bonjour. Tu as des fleurs? Pour le premier mai?"

"Oui madame"

"C'est combien?"

" Deux euros madame, s'il vous plait"

"Attends pendant que je trouve l'argent, J' en voudrais deux'

"D'accord"

"Est-ce qui'il encore pleut?"

He looked up at the sky..

"Oui madame, il pleut"

I leaned out of the window and handed him four euros
and he gave me two sprigs of flowers

I would have bought all of his flowers had that not have startled and confused him

He couldn't have known how much his appearance outside my kitchen window meant to me right then...

merci mon petit! et bonheur a tu!

I drove down to the house near the station and handed a sprig of lily of the valley to a friend.
"For good luck" I explained as I kissed her on each cheek

and then I walked with The Tibetan to the house of another good friend and gave her the second sprig with the same kisses and wishes...

une porte-bonheur

Aujourd'hui c'est le premier mai

Ici, en France, le muguet est un porte-bonheur; c'est aussi le symbole de la vie qui recommence au printemps et de la mauvais saison qui finit. On donne un brin de muguet aux amis pour dire "Bonne fête et je te souhaite de bonheur"

Picture

I'd read, years ago, about the tradition of giving these sprigs to family and friends on May 1st but for me they are forever associated with my mother-in-law.

Millie loved the smell of their perfume and sprayed herself liberally with the cologne whenever she wanted to dress-up and look smart. Oddly, for such a keen gardener, she didn't grow them, but then they're rather demanding plants and will not flower for the first two years. Millie was too impatient to wait so long. Her garden was full of blooms that provided 'instant-florification'

I loved Millie dearly.
She was a mother, an elderly aunt, a good friend and a naughty co-conspirator with me.
She was already past 60 years old when we first met.
She'd raised three daughters and a son and was a grandmother several times over.

At first we were wary of each other. I was set to take her baby, her son, the last of her unmarried children and she was afraid of being alone. Not that Millie was ever alone. Most of her family lived so close they could be with her within minutes and we all loved to be with her. But still she feared seeing her nest empty, and I understand that now as I face the same prospect within the next year or so. For me I faced the challenge of a new, large and very close family, not something that I was accustomed to with my own dysfunctional crowd.

But Millie and I grew to love and respect each other.
We spent a great deal of time together.
And I will be eternally grateful that she hung on, battled her cancer and defeated the odds long enough to see my first baby born. Especially as I made her wait 8 years for the special event!

After she died my sisters-in-law told me that they often when they walked into a room they smelt the heady perfume of lily of the valley but, sadly, it never happened for me

still, lily of the valley will always remind me of my mother in law

Bonne fête Millie!
from Gig