A Mouse In France

learning the lesson

2012-02-21T19:51:00.002+01:00

Today was another busy day and I was 'asked to step in' for a sick colleague.

I did so happily but at 12:30 I informed everyone that I was taking a lunch break, walked out of the office, got into my car and drove home to walk the dog on the green, eat a bowl of soup and sit quietly and almost meditatively for 10 minutes.

It was lovely and a much-needed pause in the middle of the day

I am done with working myself to exhaustion

Really, I am

Ask my co-worker/commenter

totally, utterly, completely, drained...

2012-02-19T08:42:00.009+01:00

Yesterday I worked and it was busy, busy, busy.

Being Little Miss Helpful, I had offered to arrive at 8am to take the baton from those in the previous time-zone and start jogging with it for the hour until my co-worker arrived at 9am. I had also planned to pause for lunch and to sit with Lily The Laptop on the comfy sofas and do some writing. And to leave at 4:30pm on the dot.

The best laid plans of Mouse and...

Suffice to say, the Bad Guys were busy yesterday and the several plates that I was obliged to spin threatened, at times, to crash to the floor. I did not pause for lunch, I did not leave on time and I finished the day a shaking, exhausted, wreck.

Of course I came home and thought about this.

Why DO I work so hard?

At the Beast I did so because, put simply, my team had gone from three experienced, skilled and committed professionals to being Me, The Hostile One (who constantly dug in her heels, refused requests for her to take on some of the work load and spent a lot of time playing games, both on her computer and in the manager's office) and The Trainee (friend of the previous manager, straight off answering the phones, incapable of learning the job, nepotism if ever I saw it).

Effectively it was a one-woman team.

And if those customers were to be supported and those sales people were to sell that software, it was down to me to do it.

With hindsight, that so-wonderful gift, I should have gone to the previous manager and said "You messed up, fix it please" but she had moved on to bigger and better things in the company

I should have gone to the new manager and said "This penny-pinching, headcount-reducing, nonsense is hurting the customers and, therefore, hurting the company" but he was on his mission to make his own mark and his management style was 'unconventional', to put it mildly.

I did neither, instead I worked, and I worked, and I worked until I burnt-out.

Not any more though.

Tomorrow I intend to tell my current manager that Saturday was a busy day, to remind him that the Bad Guys do not take weekends off, and to suggest that we increase the number of workers to three/four. I may do it in writing and cc his manager, a tactic that I should have employed during my days at The Beast, it

never hurts to have a third party in the loop.

So, today I have relaxed and recovered by spending most of the day sitting in bed, laptop on a pillow, a dog curled up beside me, studying the events leading up to the French revolution. In French. I will write a post about this soon, or at least about my thoughts on how that period contributed to why the French are as they are today. Of course that is a flagrant generalisation but if there is one thing that I learned while living in France it is that there is a distinctive 'Frenchness', a collective mindset and way of thinking/acting/being that we English lack. I admire them for it even though it is, at times, protectionist to the extent of being unethical and very difficult for we melting-pot Brits' to comprehend with our polite acceptance of everything and everyone.

The older I become, the more wise and experienced, the more confident I am about my rights, especially my rights as an employee, but also my rights as a citizen of this country.

And the more I believe that every country should have a declaration of the rights of its citizens, agreed, written and displayed in public offices throughout the land.

Every citizen of the world should demand this of its government.

The world would be a much better place if it came to pass .

And if I had the choice I know which nationality I would chose to be...

Vive la France!

DÉCLARATION DES DROITS DE L’HOMME ET DU CITOYEN DE 1789

Les Représentants du Peuple Français, constitués en Assemblée nationale, considérant que l’ignorance, l’oubli ou le mépris des droits de l’homme sont les seules causes des malheurs publics et de la corruption des Gouvernements, ont résolu d’exposer, dans une Déclaration solennelle, les droits naturels, inaliénables et sacrés de l’homme, afin que cette Déclaration, constamment présente à tous les membres du corps social, leur rappelle sans cesse leurs droits et leurs devoirs ; afin que les actes du pouvoir législatif, et ceux du pouvoir exécutif pouvant être à chaque instant comparés avec le but de toute institution politique, en soient plus respectés ; afin que les réclamations des citoyens, fondées désormais sur des principes simples et incontestables, tournent toujours au maintien de la Constitution, et au bonheur de tous. En conséquence, l’Assemblée nationale reconnaît et déclare, en présence et sous les auspices de l’Être Suprême, les droits suivants de l’homme et du citoyen.

Article premier

Les hommes naissent et demeurent libres et égaux en droits. Les distinctions sociales ne peuvent être fondées que sur l’utilité commune.

Article II

Le but de toute association politique est la conservation des droits naturels et imprescriptibles de l’homme. Ces droits sont la liberté, la propriété, la sûreté et la résistance à l’oppression.

Article III

Le principe de toute Souveraineté réside essentiellement dans la Nation. Nul corps, nul individu ne peut exercer d’autorité qui n’en émane expressément.

Article IV

La liberté consiste à pouvoir faire tout ce qui ne nuit pas à autrui : ainsi l’exercice des droits naturels de chaque homme n’a de bornes que celles qui assurent aux autres Membres de la Société, la jouissance de ces mêmes droits. Ces bornes ne peuvent être déterminées que par la Loi.

Article V

La Loi n’a le droit de défendre que les actions nuisibles à la Société. Tout ce qui n’est pas défendu par la Loi ne peut être empêché, et nul ne peut être contraint à faire ce qu’elle n’ordonne pas.

Article VI

La Loi est l’expression de la volonté générale. Tous les Citoyens ont droit de concourir personnellement, ou par leurs Représentants, à sa formation. Elle doit être la même pour tous, soit qu’elle protège, soit qu’elle punisse. Tous les Citoyens étant égaux à ses yeux, sont également admissibles à toutes dignités, places et emplois publics, selon leur capacité, et sans autre distinction que celle de leurs vertus et de leurs talents.

Article VII

Nul homme ne peut être accusé, arrêté, ni détenu que dans les cas déterminés par la Loi, et selon les formes qu’elle a prescrites. Ceux qui sollicitent, expédient, exécutent ou font exécuter des ordres arbitraires, doivent être punis ; mais tout Citoyen appelé ou saisi en vertu de la Loi doit obéir à l’instant : il se rend coupable par la résistance.

Article VIII

La Loi ne doit établir que des peines strictement et évidemment nécessaires, et nul ne peut être puni qu’en vertu d’une Loi établie et promulguée antérieurement au délit, et légalement appliquée.

Article IX

Tout homme étant présumé innocent jusqu’à ce qu’il ait été déclaré coupable, s’il est jugé indispensable de l’arrêter, toute rigueur qui ne serait pas nécessaire pour s’assurer de sa personne, doit être sévèrement réprimée par la Loi.

Article X

Nul ne doit être inquiété pour ses opinions, même religieuses, pourvu que leur manifestation ne trouble pas l’ordre public établi par la Loi.

Article XI

La libre communication des pensées et des opinions est un des droits les plus précieux de l’Homme : tout Citoyen peut donc parler, écrire, imprimer librement, sauf à répondre de l’abus de cette liberté, dans les cas déterminés par la Loi.

Article XII

La garantie des droits de l’Homme et du Citoyen nécessite une force publique : cette force est donc instituée pour l’avantage de tous, et non pour l’utilité particulière de ceux auxquels elle est confiée.

Article XIII

Pour l’entretien de la force publique, et pour les dépenses d’administration, une contribution commune est indispensable. Elle doit être également répartie entre tous les Citoyens, en raison de leurs facultés.

Article XIV

Tous les Citoyens ont le droit de constater, par eux-mêmes ou par leurs Représentants, la nécessité de la contribution publique, de la consentir librement, d’en suivre l’emploi et d’en déterminer la quotité, l’assiette, le recouvrement et la durée.

Article XV

La Société a le droit de demander compte à tout Agent public de son administration.

Article XVI

Toute Société dans laquelle la garantie des Droits n’est pas assurée, ni la séparation des Pouvoirs déterminée, n’a point de Constitution.

Article XVII

La propriété étant un droit inviolable et sacré, nul ne peut en être privé, si ce n’est lorsque la nécessité publique, légalement constatée, l’exige évidemment, et sous la condition d’une juste et préalable indemnité.

a pause in a hectic whirl...

2012-02-14T01:56:00.003+01:00

We had more snow at the end of last week. Was it Thursday or Friday? I can't remember. The days had passed in a blur of work and studies, periods of intense concentration at the office and late nights poring over my, well, not books because the course is all online so I suppose I was poring over my keyboard. It doesn't have quite the same ring about it, does it?

So, I was delighted to wake to snow.

I knew that it had snowed, I sensed it even before I climbed cautiously (on arthritic knees) from bed and padded over to the window. Have you noticed how the snow brings silence? A muffling of sounds. And a soft blanketing of all the sharp corners and angles? Snow softens the world and perhaps that is why I love it so much. I see snow as a beautiful white comforter.

I walked the dog for an hour. Hobbling along on stiff knees with bones that frequently 'catch' and make me stumble, after a while my joints relaxed and softened, or perhaps I was too entranced to notice the pain? I often think that the pain is an indicator of my levels of stress and that if I could just relax it would simply melt away.

I took lots of pictures.

And then the sun appeared and turned the sky a lovely crimson, like a smear of lipstick after a wanton kiss on the cheek and it was so beautiful. Pure white snow, the glinting of a thousand diamonds under my feet and the sky treating me to a beautiful light show with a palette of reds and purples.

And then it was back to the grindstone with no time for anything other than work and my studies and watching from the window for the next snow to fall....

empty nest, full nest

2012-02-11T08:41:00.004+01:00

The Ragazza has returned to the nest.

It is not my place to discuss her private business, suffice to say the BF was weak and unfaithful.

When one has been living alone for four years it is not always easy to accommodate another, especially in such a tiny house, changes must be made, in attitudes and habits especially in habits, occasional frictions will cause sparks that smoulder in dusty corners and threaten to break into flames unless instantly stamped upon.

I am, however, tolerant and accommodating, which surprises me. Perhaps I had all of my sharp corners knocked off me during those twelve months with The Someone. When you are obliged to walk daily on egg-shells and crawl regularly through emotional broken-glass, it makes you careful where you place your feet. I have learned to tread softly lest I arouse an angry outburst in another person.

I am also incredibly mellow. Is that the wisdom of age, I wonder, or have I had all of my fight forced from me by Life and the constant spanners (sabots for the Francophiles who will understand) that it throws in my works? I think not, at work I have become quite determined and constantly find myself not only standing up for myself but also rising to my feet in order to answer back at times. No, I think that now I simply chose my battles wisely.

So, my daughter has returned to the nest.

Her presence is good for me, having her here to care for makes me care more for myself. And I enjoy her company, she is a lovely person. And while she picks up the pieces of her life and glues them back together to form a new future, I am supportive and helpful. I am, after all, experienced in the art of recovering from failure and heading off in new directions.

I am also mindful of my own mother's response to my youthful errors. When I was led astray by love and into foolishness, she barred me from the family home and cast me out into the world to fend for myself. They were tough times indeed. I am determined never to judge my own offspring so harshly and never to pass such sentences that would push them away.

We are all fallible and often fragile.

And this weekend her brother is also here.

The Rags are home and I am happy

la neige pour le dimanche....

2012-02-05T11:55:00.006+01:00

Aujourd'hui nous avons un léger recouvrement de la neige.

That came from Google translate and is not, I suspect, entirely correct and I am pretty certain not how the French would say it, which proves how much of a minefield is the whole exercise of learning a foreign language, especially if, like me, you were schooled in the sixties.

I mean how many times have you heard a French person utter the phrase "La plume de ma tante?"

I am at my studies today since my French course began officially yesterday and I have 15 hours of work to plough through before next Saturday. The course commences (see - I am starting to speak like a French person speaking English already), the course starts with the history of decolonisation in France after the second world war, a fascinating topic and one that explains a great deal about why the French think as they do.

I also recommend the recent BBC series Jonathan Meades on France (available on iPlayer in the UK but perhaps not for much longer now), the second programme discussed French identity and is, in my opinion, brilliant.

Anyway, if you see me here or lurking in your blog please send me away with un puce in my ear!

But I wanted to give you fellow French-speaking folk a little gift to help you to type with accents if, like me, you can't be bothered to plug in a French laptop

et voilà, a neat toolbar gadget that has French accents at the click of a mouse

http://www.lexicool.com/

It is a safe site, I would not offer you the link otherwise but, as ever, be aware that even the safest and most respectable of websites can be infected at times so do ensure your AV has the ability to scan for malware before clicking.

okey dokey, back to the Algerian war...

bon dimanche!

PS at 13:45 the OU course website where all of the material is held and from which one must study, became unavailable. I suspect that Sunday afternoon is the most popular time to study. I've already expressed my reservations about this course being totally online and the problems that may bring, it's disappointing to find myself proved right so soon!

les tournants...

2012-02-04T08:27:00.010+01:00

I no longer believe in signs, symbols, portents

For a long time I slavishly succumbed to such beliefs and allowed this totally unfounded and unscientific stuff to lead me, by the nose, through life, probably because I did not trust my own judgement.

There are events in life which, with hindsight, we recognise as turning points. In French les tournants. You will all have encountered these events and know that at such times many of them present you with a fork in the road and offer you the choice of a new direction.

They're easy. Not the decision, making decisions that will lead to Change is tough and definitely not to be entered into lightly. And certainly not armed only with a pocket full of signs, symbols and superstitions. But they're easy to recognise.

Then there are the other turning points. The ones that are subtle, almost-imperceptible, very hard to recognise, much less to acknowledge. The small events, the little changes, the tiniest influence that has an effect on us without us even realising it at the time. The 'butterfly effect' ones. In order for them to be useful we need to be intuitive and to know ourselves. I don't think I am explaining myself very well at all!

Let me offer an example of a subtle turning point that has had a profound effect on me. I was sick in bed and feeling anxious because I was not at my desk, and deeply depressed because life was not good at that time. And when I am in bed I am never alone. Aside from the furry paws who join me, I have Radio 4 for company. On this occasion I happened, by change, to catch an episode of A History Of The World In 100 Objects, The Swimming Reindeer. I wrote about it here.

And from this incident I learned a lesson that has had a profound effect on me. Not the fact that I adore reindeer, because I've also written about my love of Lapland and snow and reindeer many times, no, I learned that studying a new subject, learning about something totally new, exposing myself to new ideas, opens up new pathways in my brain and makes me smarter and much, much happier.

Many of you will say "Of course it does" but I had never been aware before that day in bed with those swimming reindeer. To say that it affected me would be an understatement, it has led me to discover new ways of dealing with my depression. Whilst I still take my meds daily I also take a large dose of discovering something new too. Remember that weekend that I spent entirely devoted to physics? It was blissful!

So yesterday, at work, I stood up in our daily 'morning prayers' session during which we keep each other informed of that which we are working on (to an outsider it would sound like we talk in tongues, so full of geek-talk is it), and I was surrounded by young men in T-shirts and jeans (even The Big Boss was there and wearing a company T-shirt), and I was wearing a long skirt and my furry Finnish boots and my hair in a plait. And I stood out as different from the crowd.

The Big Boss smiled at me across the room and I told him "I plan to wrestle reindeer tonight" and he told me "You look like you already have, and won!"

And I thought, I AM different and I like that!

I like being thought of as unique, albeit at times naive and old-fashioned and out-of-step

And this uniqueness is appreciated by my employer which values diversity and free-thinking and those who refuse to conform because that is the way to innovation and growth.

And then, and here is where those signs may seem to be glaringly obvious, The Big Boss announced that The Velvet Glove (she who was so against my working remotely) has now taken maternity leave and that he is in charge.

But it isn't a sign, a portent. It is of no importance. What really matters is that I have been learning self-awareness and growing more confident and determined, and that has permitted me to be myself and not to fear being different. So the fact that The Velvet Glove will be out of the picture for a while is not a sign of anything, it was the turning point caused by the swimming reindeer episode will enable me to win my battle to live my life in the way that I chose.

on failure....

2012-02-03T08:35:00.003+01:00

An admission...

For the last three years, since returning with my metaphorical tail between my legs from France, I have felt like a total failure.

Strike that, the feeling of having failed began when I allowed the bullies to beat me.

Or perhaps it was...

Oh dear, I can go back a long, long way and see failure upon failure.

You see what happens when a mother tells her four-year old child that she is not the daughter she had expected to have?

So, Failure being a lifelong friend, or should I say, faux ami, leads to a continuing succession of failures as one seeks to confirm that one is, indeed, a failure. Even one's successes are not seen as such because that would be to over-shadow Failure, no, they are instead viewed as 'luck' or, in my case, as Failure having missed the chance to wreck that one! D'oh!

After a while Failure ceases to be a stick with which one beats oneself and becomes a crutch

I am mixing my metaphors like there is no tomorrow but that is my way...

Failure also becomes a bandage that one uses to wrap up hurt very tightly

Dare I risk one more metaphor?

Perhaps not, but you know there are more, many more, don't you?

Anyway, the point of this post is to announce that I am done with feeling a failure and that henceforth Failure is not longer welcome to stalk me and I do not need the crutch or bandage and any other of the mixed metaphors...

Henceforth I am going to change my focus

Every so-called failure will be an opportunity to learn and the catalyst for a success

Every disappointment will be a temporary glitch

Every mistake a chance to change direction

Let's see how it feels....

Sootie 12/03/2000 - 30/01/2012

2012-01-30T20:42:00.004+01:00

My beautiful black cat died in my arms and as he drew his last peaceful breath he was still purring

And, true to form, despite being in floods of tears, I offered to help the vet with the catheter. She smiled kindly, declined and took him to a back room to insert the needle returning with him cradled in her arms so that I could hold him at the end.

Ever Little Miss Helpful, but then I spent years working with vets and easing the final moments of other people's pets. This evening it was the first time that I had had to hold one of my own pets as he died.

I am not good when Death comes knocking on the door

I try so hard to fight him off

I hold his chosen one close to me

And while there is a still hope I fight, I really, really fight

Sootie is now reunited with his brother

and, no doubt, they are curled up together like a pair of apostrophes

and Sootie is telling Sweep "Oh boy, have I had some adventures!"

Sootie and Sweep

2012-01-30T09:15:00.005+01:00

The Ex did not like pets.

My one attempt to become a pet-owner ended in tears when I was told to chose between him and my Dalmatian, alas I made the wrong choice and parted with my puppy.

So, as soon as The Ex finally moved out, a year after declaring his intention to leave, we replaced him with two black kittens.

Sootie and Sweep.

They were devoted brothers, they played ambush and hide and seek and It all day and then they would curl up on the same chair like a pair of apostrophes enclosing an unwritten phrase and sleep.

Sweep died early, a victim of a speeding, thoughtless motorist. We were heartbroken. My best friend Jeannie's husband Tim was dispatched to dig a grave but we couldn't bear to think of the kitten lying in the frozen February ground, and so Tim took him to the vet to be cremated. We still have the box of his ashes.

Sootie was lonely without his brother and took to wandering which led to a few adventures.

There was the time he was stuck on a neighbour's chimney and the RSPCA were called and, after the obligatory forty-eight hours wait, a red fire engine arrived to rescue him. I remember praying that the local newspaper hadn't got wind of it, the puns and jokes concerning Sootie and a chimney pot would have been embarrassing.

Once, after an absence, he came home wearing a fluffy orange collar and smelling of old ladies and very pleased with himself.

When we moved to France he was delighted, he took to rural French life with the abundance of mice and bats and the freedom to roam the French fields. I believe he almost acquired a French accent, he certainly had a Gallic shrug.

It's funny really, but like my old car, Dante, now rusting in the garden in France, Sootie is symbolic of my post-marriage life. My first tentative steps at independence after seventeen years of a lonely life with The Ex. My first chance to be Me.

Today Sootie will travel to the vet for the last time.

My old black cat is nearing the end of his life and, characteristically for him, he is independently refusing to submit, he is hanging on even though he is evidently in pain and suffering a great deal. So it is up to me to make that awful decision to end his life as peacefully and as painlessly as possible.

It is time for Sootie and Sweep to be reunited

plus ca change...

2012-01-27T20:25:00.003+01:00

Before I fled to France I had worked myself into a burnout.

Blame a bullying manager and a back-stabbing junior and dominant over-achiever genes that always had me thinking I was a fraud and never quite good enough. If you mix all of those factors and then add a single parent struggling to raise two kids and pay a mortgage the size of an EU country's debt, well the resulting burnout was inevitable.

I'd forgotten how it felt

Until today

Today I arrived at work early to discover that two of my team were missing. One sick and one taking a day off, unknown to me. I should have requested two stand-ins. I should have left some of the work to others. I should have, could have, would have...

Except that I am still struggling with that elephant in the room issue and to have admitted that I could not do the work of three people, when that was precisely what I did at The Beast, would have felt like admitting to failure. Except that this work is so very much more complicated and intense and we juggle so many more balls and keep so many more plates spinning....

I worked for nine hours without a break.

I did the work of those three people.

I did more, in fact, than was strictly necessary.

When I left at 5pm my head was spinning.

My chest was tight.

My shoulders were so tense they hurt.

My ears were ringing.

And I felt sick.

It was just like those days back at The Beast.

A realisation that struck me as I sat in my car outside the house and rested my aching head on the steering wheel and burst into tears.

Back then I thought that in working so hard I could fight off the bullies and keep my position in the company, and I failed on both counts

Today I thought that in working so hard I could prove my worth and earn the right to work remotely from France, and I know, deep down, that that just isn't going to happen.

I could work myself into another burnout and it would not make the slightest difference.

I will be doing some serious thinking over the next few days.....

wrapped-up

2012-01-18T08:05:00.002+01:00

in complex code

and French grammar

and fictional lives

and January days

and today's French word is me!

how lovely

quick response...

2012-01-15T09:17:00.004+01:00

Elizabeth, in response to my previous post, replied with this comment " It is about time there was some good karma in your life - you are always on the hop" and I just had to reply

Elizabeth, bless you but I feel as if there is a great deal of good karma in my life.

I have my Rags, I love my work, I am happy in my little rented house, I adore the location, I have a lovely house in France and wonderful friends there who I adore

Importantly, I am no longer anxious and afraid all the time

I am actually quite contented

My life is not perfect, few people have lives that are perfect and, actually, that is as it should be because perfection would be dull and sickly-sweet and what would there be to work for and to dream of if we had perfection?

My life is not always easy but that's because I chose not to take the easy option, not to settle for second best, not to compromised and not to sell-out. I do not always take the easy route and the path most trodden because I quite like my meandering, exciting path.

The main thing is that this is MY life and it is up to me to make the very best of it.

a mouse in france (or the tooth fairy visits)

2012-01-13T18:56:00.003+01:00

What is the worst thing a person with a tooth-phobia and a morbid fear of dentists could arrange to do on Friday 13th? Actually, the date worried me not, as I explained to my Hungarian colleague, not being a Knight Templar, but still, perhaps not the best date for That visit to the dentist.

You'll remember The Terminator Tooth Infection that took up residence under a molar and steadfastly fought off every antibiotic that the pharmacist could throw at it, even the drug that threatened to cause me psychotic episodes and stomach ulcers? Yes, That infection.

Well, having been to the dentist four times, having had a root canal filling, enough X-Rays to make me glow in the dark and having left each time with a medicated temporary filling and a prescription for penicillin, over Christmas matters took a turn for the worse. If that was possible. For the last three weeks I have been in agony, absolute agony, and I have a high pain threshold so it must have been a serious pain indeed.

Finally I had to admit defeat and acknowledge that my dentist was right and I should have listened to her advice on the first visit when she told me that the abscess under my molar was indicative of a serious problem and that I should let her remove the tooth.

Today I returned for that feared extraction.

I was very worried, partly because of the phobia, partly because of the fear of dentists and partly because my NHS dentist is so young she can't have been qualified for long and probably hasn't even done an extraction before, I thought as I drove to the surgery at lunchtime. And NHS dentists, are they as good as the private people who charge a small fortune just to examine one's teeth? Perhaps I should have sold my car and gone private after all?

When I sat in the chair and opened my mouth I was so tense that had I clamped my jaws shut I would have bitten right through the bones in her arm. And my feet were raised a foot above my knees and as rigid as the most rock-hard rigid thing you can think of. And I was not breathing.

And then, just as a panic attack threatened and while my dentist told me "We can always send you to hospital for this under gas" I suddenly thought "I am SO bloody sick of being scared all the time when I used to be so feisty and strong!" and I relaxed all of my muscles, dropped my feet, took a deep breath and before you could say "dental decay" the dentist whipped out the tooth and threw it into the bowl with a flourish.

Lord was it an evil-looking tooth, cracked right down the middle and with the mother of all abscesses clinging to its roots like an alien monster. The dentist gazed at it, the nurse gazed at it, I prodded it with a metal spike fully expecting it to leap up, scream and run out of the door. And then the hole in my head was packed with sponge and I was given a wad of dressing to chomp on and a sticker declaring that I had been brave at the dentist to wear with pride, and I was free.

And the cost of the whole thing, all of the visits and X-rays and temp fillings and root canal work and the extraction? £47. Such a bargain.

I returned to the office and gamely continued to work, causing much merriment as I lisped to order, and then the anaesthetic wore off and I was obliged to crawl home where I am now wrapped in a blanket, popping painkillers and waiting until its time for my next antibiotic. I feel as if I have been kicked in the face by a large horse but I am pretty proud of myself and mightily relieved that it's over. And on Monday that kind and clever young dentist will receive the large bouquet of flowers that I just ordered as a thank you.

and the title? well, in France the tooth fairy is actually a mouse

how ironic is that? :-)

(no, I did not bring the tooth home to pop under my pillow, I was afraid it might bite one of the cats in the night!)

What's in it for Me?

2012-01-12T07:47:00.003+01:00

I've never been good at looking after myself. I've also never been very good at looking out for myself. I've always been the one who works harder than everyone else, who volunteers for all the tasks that others feel too menial, and the daunting stuff that often scares them, and the work that is not going to earn them any brownie points

Taking on all the crap stuff means I simply never had time to focus on the smart stuff that leads to fame and glory. I don't mean I never had the opportunity, I've been offered some pretty plum positions in my time and I know I could have ended up close to the top of the tree, had I not been so focused on the needs of the team, group, company.

I sound stupid, don't I? Put like that it is stupid.

I mean, at the end of the day, when a person is burnt-out, the employer is not going to step in with a thank you for going the extra mile, and a bonus to pay for an extended period of sick-leave, are they?

Yesterday a colleague asked me to be in early to cover for someone who is sick. I did actually question if he was able to provide the cover, to which he had no answer, of course he could, it's just that I am expected to always say Yes.

I arrived at work an hour early. I worked very hard all day. And I left an hour late.

Yesterday evening I sat myself down and asked myself a question that I find difficult to face because it seems to selfish, so egotistical and so, well, so not me.

"What's in it for Me?"

and the answer was nothing, nothing at all.

except that it's how I am and what I do

the elephant in the office..

2012-01-11T07:37:00.004+01:00

Yesterday I was, the first time, involved in an event that occurs almost daily at my work place, a tour of our inner sanctum.

Being who we are and doing that which we do, some folk find us fascinating creatures and relish the opportunity to come in to see us in action. Mostly clients, sales people, partners, we don't often see non-business-related visitors.

I'd expressed an interest in giving such tours (hitherto reserved for the most senior colleagues) myself.

I am a good communicator as well as a techie, and I have always been known as Little Ms Enthusiasm Personified, and whilst I can be shy in my personal life, I am quite the opposite when it comes to work, so standing up in front of a room of people and talking techie holds no fear for me. Quite the reverse.

Yesterday was my first step towards presenting visitor tours, I was to watch and listen and learn how one person does it. I was also there to help out with any language difficulties because the visitors were a group of French students.

My colleague presented brilliantly. I was deeply impressed.

The leader of the group of visitors and I exchanged a few whispered words. She complimented me on my French, I told her that my home is in France. She asked where and declared that we are almost neighbours, the students are from a large town not too far away. I translated a few phrases for her since she is not a techie, she is the group's English teacher. And at the end, when my colleague asked if there were any questions and the group stood blinking and looking shell-shocked I stood up and asked if anyone wanted to ask anything in French

As my colleague (manager) and I sat down for our regular one to one chat later in the afternoon we discussed the morning's tour. I told him I had been impressed but that it was a little frustrating for me because I would have liked to have been a more active participant, I'd have liked to have translated much of what he said into French. In future, if the opportunity arises perhaps I could provide a non-English tour. It was agreed. Much was agreed. It was a very positive meeting during which his feedback on my daily work and willingness to take on more and more complex tasks was complimentary. I am doing well, it seems

But there is of course one huge problem that will soon need to be addressed

It is, of course, my request to work remotely from France which has become, it occurs to me, the elephant in the office....

"Elephant in the room" is an English metaphorical idiom for an obvious truth that is being ignored or goes unaddressed. The idiomatic expression also applies to an obvious problem or risk no one wants to discuss.

It is based on the idea that an elephant in a room would be impossible to overlook; thus, people in the room who pretend the elephant is not there have chosen to avoid dealing with the looming big issue"

(Wikipedia)

taking stock...

2012-01-07T23:44:00.003+01:00

When I first returned from France to embark on this new career 'at my age', I found it all very difficult. It wasn't just that I'd been burnt-out and stressed to the max in my previous job, or that I'd spent two years out of the work place, or that I'd been emotionally exhausted by the antics of The Someone, or that I was at that age when a woman's mind goes a little fluffy and feelings run amok...

it was all of that plus the fact that I'd chosen a field totally different to anything I'd experienced in my twenty years in I.T, one that is complex and fast-changing and in which the Bad Guys use every trick in the book to try to thwart us.

Hand on heart, several times during the first few months I was tempted to throw in the towel and return to France, and I suspect that several times during that period my then-manager would probably have helped me to pack.

Fast forward a little over three years....

I worked again today. And, by mutual consent and because I can get from home to office in 8 minutes on a Saturday and Sunday, I was the first of the weekend-working team to arrive.

It's a very high-tech building, state of the art, eco-friendly, extremely impressive. I often walk in, past the several security barriers and pause in the atrium which, with its high ceilings and steel walkways looks like a 21st century cathedral built to worship the gods of technology and of progress. I never cease to be amazed that I work there. That my meandering and oft-times overgrown path has led me to this.

This morning I stood at the door to our inner sanctum and gazed about me at all of the computers and monitors and blinking lights and humming servers. Such a responsibility, being in sole charge, such a compliment to be trusted. I called out 'Good morning inner sanctum, I am here" and then smiled because in my days as a systems programmer I often chatted to 'my' mainframes and always laughed with pleasure and excitement when one of my new systems displayed the message that became my mantra - "Control Is Being Given To CICS".

It has been a long time since those days...

And a long and difficult journey

But here I am. Doing this job, waking each morning with a sense of anticipation at the thought of all that the new day will throw at me and feeling excited by all that I will learn and knowing that at the end of the day I will have achieved something worthwhile

I am not as smart as the young geeks. No, let me correct that, I am not as skilled as the young geeks. Not yet. I think I may be as smart, and I'm working hard to prove that this year. But the not being so skilled part has caused me much angst in the past. And because we all review each other's work before letting it loose in cyberspace, and because they are young and male and often lacking in social skills, their feedback can be brutally critical and takes a bit of getting used to. And no-one ever says "Well done" or "Good work" or "Wow you caught several thousand bankers with one line of code". I miss the days when my customers called me a star and thanked me for my efforts.

So in this role it's hard to feel confident.

But yesterday I made myself take note of all that I have learned and of all of the skills that I have acquired, and of all that I can now do. And of how all that once confused and worried me now makes perfect sense. And I told myself that I am as capable of being as geekish as the geeks. And that I have an extra ace up my sleeve. I am blessed with intuition and that is proving to be a real bonus.

I'm not saying this to sound vain or full of myself.

I'm telling you this to prove that, even in one's fifties, it is possible for a person to embark on a totally new career, to learn a whole load of new skills, and to be successful. That this fifty-something did just that in the intensely geeky field is proof positive.

So, whatever you want to do, just go on and do it.

And now, after working for seven days in a row, I have a day off.

"I have no deeds to do, no promises to keep..."

Bon dimanche tout le monde!

Cette petite souris est au repos...

resolve...

2012-01-07T00:49:00.002+01:00

The great things about my 2012 resolutions is that they are hard to break.

In the past I have always composed long lists of Do's and Don't's usually commencing with 1. Lose weight and including Get Fit and Stop Stressing somewhere among the twenty or so that I thought necessary for me, personally.

Of course having a long list of definite do this and don't do that rules simply set me up for failure, usually round about lunchtime on Jan 1st when I had already managed not to rise at 6am, run twenty miles and swim the Channel before a lunch of water and fresh air. OK, not really, but my resolutions were just as unrealistic and so just as likely to be broken.

This year, having resolved only to strive for health and happiness, I am finding it so much easier to stick to my goals and I'm already reaping the benefits. And the beauty of it is that if do fall by the wayside and spend a whole day in bed with a book and a bar of chocolate it will not be the end of the world, I can simply start again the following day.

I'be always been an over-achiever, and always secretly believed that I never achieved anything, so I have a tendency to set myself impossible goals and then miss them by miles just to prove to myself that I am a failure. Having these achievable and realistic goals is going to make it pretty hard for me to repeat that pattern of behaviour and probably means that I'll end the year feeling like a success.

Which will be a novel and most welcome experience!

January 6th 2012

So far, so good

How are the rest of you doing?

account settled, in full

2012-01-06T05:50:00.006+01:00

Last night I dreamed that I was in a lovely, friendly Italian shop whose nice owners I knew but the shop had changed and gone a little up-market. It was selling ice-creams (certo!) and also shoes. Italian shoes. And I was with The Ragazza and a gorgeous younger man who I didn't really know that well. Being me I had offered to buy shoes for us all, nice hand-made shoes that I thought cost about 45 euros but it turned out that that was only the first payment and the final cost would be ten times that amount and I would be paying for those three pairs of shoes for years to come. The Ragazza, being herself, instantly informed me that she did not want the shoes, they were not worth the cost and she would not commit me to paying the price for the foreseeable future but the man strutted and twirled and admired himself in a mirror as he tried on his shoes and as I watched him I thought "Why, he looks ridiculous in those 400 euro shoes, they really don't suit him, why did I even offer to buy them for him, I am going to be paying for years!"

And when I awoke I realised that the man in the dream was a man I once knew. A man who had taken my suggestion to stay over one night as an invitation to move in and live at my expense for a whole year. A man without manners, frequently foul-mouthed, often crude, always one wrong-word away from a terrible temper tantrum. A man with so much excess-emotional baggage that I was almost crushed under its weight.

He could be kind, supportive. He spent some time doing some work on my house and he was very skilled. For the record I was appreciative but I always told him "You do not need to do this" as he always insisted that he liked to be busy and was enjoying himself. And in return I worked as an interpreter and translator in his business affairs. But mostly I just loved the novelty of being in a relationship that involved sharing and caring, those things had been sadly missing from my marriage.

There were good times for which I was grateful but there were also times so bad that in the end I left my home to escape the relationship, and him.

The last words that I said to him were "This is abuse, you are abusive"

So no, I now refuse to continue to pay for my mistake of four years ago.

That particular account has been settled, one hundred times over.

I am moving on.

Funny how our subconscious selves sometimes scream at us, isn't it?

If only they'd also whisper in our ears before we rush to make stupid mistakes

resolutions....

2012-01-05T06:51:00.006+01:00

I had decided on my resolutions and so, as the last few minutes of 2011 ticked away, I stood by the fire, a drink in hand, ready to toss the piece of paper on which I had written the bad of the previous year into the flames and to raise my glass to 2012

My plans for this year are ambitious and yet my list of New Year resolutions is short. In fact one single resolution, to live each day in such a way that I am as happy and healthy as possible. So simple, so empowering, so all-embracing and so sensible. Perfect!

On my list of Bad Things were the names of The Cowboy and The Someone because I wished to let go of the hurts for which they had been responsible and unpack the emotional baggage that they had left me to drag around for the last few years. With The Cowboy it was easy, I simply sent copies of his so-called invoices to the French tax office and forwarded my lawyers' correspondences to the French fraud office and it was over....

But The Someone, well, I was taken aback and somewhat shocked by the sudden rush of emotions evoked by my burning of his name on that piece of paper. There were tears, a flood of tears, and pain, a sharp and terrible pain and then, finally, an anger such as I have never before experienced. Such anger!

He was a nasty bully and abusive. And what hurts most was not that I loved him but that I permitted him to treat me so disgracefully, repeatedly, over and over again I let him throw a tantrum, run away like a silly little boy and then return.

I guess what I am saying is that I am really angry with myself. That perhaps I should have written my own name on that piece of paper and watched the flames consume it.

Wise people have advised me that the best revenge is to go on to live a happy and successful life and that is precisely what I am doing but still, I really wish that I could erase that particular part of my past, wipe it out, wipe him out completely.

labels...

2012-01-02T05:30:00.006+01:00

Nerd, or Geek?

I spent the last six hours of 2011 working on my old French laptop. Not having been used for over two years, it was sorely in need of a little TLC , sixty-eight Microsoft security updates, a new Anti-Virus and the subsequent scan that ran for three hours, a disk clean-up and defragmentation, IE Version 8, it all took a long time. I sat happily in my chair with Lily resting on the arm and connected to the internet and Daudet on my lap being updated and brought back to life, and I felt like the contented mother of teething twins.

Actually twins who speak different languages, I got quite a kick out of playing with Daudet who speaks French and with whom I must communicate via a keyboard which is subtly different and which includes all of the accents I will need for my studies although, sadly, none that represents a Gallic shrug.

When I went to bed, after staying up only to wish The Ragazza a Happy New Year and to send silent good thoughts to The Ragazzo, wherever he was celebrating, I felt it had been a good New Year's Eve, productive, interesting and a real trip down memory lane to the days in France when I could only connect Daudet to the Orange France network if I rose at 4am and left him connected continuously, and when 'wireless' meant the lights had burnt out again.

On New Year's Day I was at work by eight am and back to locking horns with that same Bad Guy and his evil spam spawn, a few minutes investigation, a couple of code-changes. and he was slapped back into oblivion again.

Bad Guy 0 Mouse 1

So, I thought at 5pm as I left the office in a cold downpour and ran/hobbled/limped to my car, am I a geek or a nerd?

Nerd is a derogatory slang term for an intellectual but socially-impaired, perhaps obsessive person who spends inordinate amounts of time on unpopular or obscure pursuits, to the exclusion of more mainstream activities. Nerds are considered to be awkward, shy, and unattractive. Thus, a nerd is often excluded from physical activity and considered a loner by others, or will tend to associate with a small group of like-minded people. As with other pejoratives, nerd has been reappropriated by some as a term of pride and group identity.

I don't 'think' I am socially-impaired, although I really only can manage a Tribe of, at most, twenty people and I loathe and detect office parties and crowds. I am shy but perfectly able to stand up and speak in front of an audience and have no problems communicating with folk. Quite the opposite, I'm usually the one to initiate a conversation with a stranger, I talk to anyone and everyone, especially on ferries! I probably do spend time on obscure pursuits, that day exploring the Higgs Boson particle and not forgetting that The Rags had to almost drag me away from the swimming reindeer, yes, hands up to that one. But not really a nerd...

Geek term, with different meanings ranging from "a computer expert or enthusiast" to "a carnival performer who performs sensationally morbid or disgusting acts", with a general pejorative meaning of "a peculiar or otherwise dislikable person, esp[ecially] one who is perceived to be overly intellectual".

The word actually derives from Old English, I think, and originally meant a fool.

I wrote my first line of computer code thirty-five years ago. I have never performed a morbid act in a carnival. I do not claim to be overly intellectual. I may well be considered peculiar by some but hopefully not dislikeable by many.

I hate it when people judge a person by their age, appearance, apparent wealth, or lack thereof. I hate being pigeon-holed. I hate being expected to behave in ways that others expect.

Geek or Nerd?

December 31

2011-12-31T09:20:00.003+01:00

People are writing end of year posts, there are book lists, photographs, a lovely set of pictures of someone's happy memories, I feel as if I should join in but I have nothing similar to offer.

2011

It was a year of working hard, harder than I have ever worked before and, believe me, I have always been a hard worker. I wish that I could describe my work, the complexity of it, the masses of skills we are required to possess, the knowledge, the sheer brain power that goes in to fighting Bad Guys in cyberspace. I can't really do it, I can't give away the tricks of my trade. Let me offer one insight, yesterday I spent time with a senior colleague working on detection for several different e-mail attachment html files that redirect the victim to a nasty teen porn website where, no doubt, there are malwares waiting to download. Opening that innocent-looking attachment is the equivalent of raising the lid on Pandora's Box.

I still have much to learn but this job is perfect for me. And yes, I will be back at my desk on New Year's Day and on bank holiday Monday...

It was also the year in which I finally found the courage to return to France and to exorcise the ghosts that had been lingering since my departure in 2008. In 2011 I discovered that my French dream had not died and that I still wanted it very much indeed. And I learned that I have good friends in France without whose support and kindness I would not have been able to return. Thank you P&H from the bottom of my heart.

And there have been small jewels of happiness sprinkled in my year.

Mother's Day at the British Museum when the Rags took me to meet 'my' swimming reindeer, a weekend in Glastonbury with a wonderful woman, visits to stone circles and white horses.

2011 was a good year, as it draws to an end I feel as if I am in a good place.

So, 2012, what will you bring, or, more to the point, what can I make happen during the next twelve months? I have plans, big plans, ambitious plans for the coming year. Given the will and the energy and a little luck, it should be quite amazing.

Happy New Year to you all and may 2012 also bring you all that you need and a great deal that you desire

living life backwards

2011-12-30T08:27:00.002+01:00

That's how it feels right now, I feel as if I reached 50 and my life went into reverse.

Here's why:

1. That blonde plait. I had thought my hair had turned grey and frizzy like it does when one reaches a certain age. I was convinced that I had become a little grey-haired old lady. The picture of me at Hampton Court with a shiny, blonde plait came as a total surprise, from behind I look like a teenager!

2. I am cutting teeth. Ok, so they are wisdom teeth so it's not quite a kid think, but believe me teething is still the same jaw-grinding agony at 55 as it was at 5 months! I may buy some of that children's medication

3. I am going back to school. Yes, it is a third-level university course and I doubt I will be top of my class and teacher's pet as I was when I was 7, but still there is the excitement of new note books and pens and even the tingly feeling of exams and grades. This time, as well as the books, I am trying to find the cable for my French laptop because writing essays will be so much easier on that keyboard.

4. I am single, unmarried, I live and sleep alone. Just like when I was a child my room is my own to keep tidy or mess up as I wish only this time I do not have a mother to complain if I stick pictures of Johnny Depp and ponies on the walls (and do not think I won't!)

5. This may come as a shock but I am saving for a pony. I first started saving for a pony when I was 5 years old and I did acquire enough cash by the time I was 9 but my parents refused to let me buy one. Now there is nothing to stop me. Next month I am going to take a riding lesson.

6. I am learning to walk. Not as a chubby toddler but rather as an arthritic, skiing-killed-my-knees middle-aged woman. I cruise around the furniture when my knees feel stiff and I come downstairs sideways and sometimes on my bum. But having walked awkwardly since I ripped my hamstrings I am now having to learn to walk properly again

7. I am learning to talk. OK, French and I do speak it but not as fluently as an adult French woman, sometimes I babble like a baby.

This is all rather fun, you know. I heartily recommend living life backwards when one reaches middle-age. After all, we've really earned the right to do as we please and to start to realise some of our childhood dreams, n'est-ce pas.

PS Do you think they'd let me play on the swings in the park and would I look ridiculous half-way up a tree?

post-Christmas

2011-12-29T08:37:00.002+01:00

I rise to a dark and quiet world.

Even at 7:07am it is still pitch black outside

The Christmas decorations look gaudy and out of place, like a girl still in a glittering dress and make-up the day after the party. If I want to move forward with energy should I take them down early? Perhaps leave only the tree still standing?

The fireplace is filled with cold, grey ash. How nice it would be to come down to still-glowing embers, small signs of life.

Two silver crackers lie next to the TV. Does their presence mean that our celebrations were not as complete as they should have been? Did I miss something? Was it lacking? They remind me that two people are required to pull a cracker and I am alone.

Depression descends.

And then the sky begins to lighten and I see the trees outside my window swaying in the wind as another day dawns.

Maybe I will remove the decorations and replace them with flowers?

Maybe tonight I will light the fire?

Maybe, with my own two hands I will pull those crackers?

Maybe I will pack away my Christmas memories, wrap them in smiles and soft paper?

Meanwhile I will prepare myself for a whole new day...

2012 plans..

2011-12-28T10:09:00.004+01:00

I am going to be working hard next year

1. Open University French Course - Mises au Point

"This course follows on from Envol: upper intermediate French (L211). It continues to develop your knowledge and understanding of the society and culture of contemporary France and to extend the practical skills of listening, speaking, reading and writing. The study resources include online authentic audio and video, comprising interviews, documentaries and reportages, and illustrated printed materials. You will also develop your academic writing, critical and analytical skills, and intercultural competence. The course has six themes that give both broad and focused coverage of different aspects of historical and contemporary France and French-speaking countries."

Mises au Point is a course that I have attempted three times before. The first time coincided with my return to work at The Beast and was reluctantly abandoned due to work pressures. The second time was when I returned from France to take up my new career in cyber security, and then two years ago when I reached the last hurdle, the exam, I dropped out.

This year I am aiming to complete the course and gain a distinction. And if that sounds egotistical, trust me, I will be working very hard in order to earn it.

2. Work

If I am to realise my dream of being able to work from France then I need to convince The Velvet Glove and her Fluffy Finger Puppets that I am so valuable an employee and so real an asset that they willingly accommodate my wishes by bending their rigid rules re remote working. And that means pushing myself further and harder, for a start I'll be in early in order to brush up on my skills and to learn more complex ones. We'll see how it goes but some time in the spring I will be submitting a formal application to work from France and it will be worded in such a way that my employer will have to give good reasons if they refuse my request. But I hope they won't.

On verra...

3. Writing

Ah, The Book. My fictional tale of one woman, one villain and six months in Brittany. To be followed, hopefully, by the real-life account of A Mouse In France, from the arrival of the bullying manager and the antics of The Hostile One, to my flight to France, the cheating Cowboy, good friends, an ill-fated love affair, and why I returned. And for light relief, a set of short stories that I will probably post on a new blog devoted to fictional writings.

4. Health

Issues must be addressed if I am to enjoy a husky safari in Lapland, to climb a small mountain, to kayak in the sea and to ride horses again. All of which are on my Wish List.

I'll be writing a long list of resolutions in order to help me achieve all of the above and it will be a challenge, but if I pull it off next year should be absolutely wonderful.

Watch This Space

Boxing Day

2011-12-26T21:40:00.004+01:00

And another family custom. The Boxing Day drive to Reading to deliver The Rags to the home of The Ex so that they can attend his family's festive celebrations. Of course there was a time when I was also a part of the fun but since the divorce, and of course he has a new partner.

On our way we always stop to walk the dog at Peppard Common. When they were young we walked there often, for a while with our Dalmation puppy who sadly had to go when The Ex uttered an ultimatum and made me chose between them. Alas, I made the wrong choice. I cried for two whole weeks when Domino left, when The Ex left all that I felt was relief.

I once told The Ragazza that when I die I would like her to scatter my ashes in the churchyard at Peppard Common. I think that would be a lovely place to rest in peace and I could provide nutrients for the snowdrops.

So we walked and we talked

remembering past times, occasionally reflective and quiet, often joking and laughing

My Rags, the dog and me

And then I drove home to light the fire, turn on the Christmas lights and sit peacefully and contentedly and counting my blessings

making memories...

2011-12-26T10:10:00.008+01:00

That's what Christmas means to me, making happy memories to store away in my little treasure trove of good times so that in darker days I can take then out and bask in their light, feel their warmth and smile

Santa made it down the tiny chimney after all, good for him he declined to use the open window and kept to tradition.

We'd been tracking him all day, smiling at his progress around the world, growing quite excited as he neared our shores.

He seemed to appreciate the small glass of Baileys and mince pie and Rudolf ate half of his (very large, thank you Ragazza!) carrot.

As usual, The Rags received

something to wear

something chocolatey

something to play

something to read

something nice-smelling

Santa's gifts were much appreciated, he chose well this year.

He did not bring me my pony, alas, but he did whisper to me in my dreams that I have the means and the ability to make that fifty-year old wish come true and that I would appreciate it far more if I make it happen myself. He left me courage, determination and a sense of my own worth to help me. Thank you Santa

So, there was a relaxed breakfast eaten sitting among the gifts and wrapping paper

There was the playing of games

There was a popping next door with a plate of mince pies to thank my neighbour who last year let me cook our dinner in her kitchen

There was the dinner which we ate in the tiny lounge at the patio table I had recently bought and that The Ragazzo and I assembled on the rug.

There was, as usual, some very intense discussions between three people who think deeply, who care intensely and who like to debate intelligently.

There was the pulling of crackers and the wearing of silver crowns

There was the lighting of the fire, the first time this year and an event I had saved for Christmas evening to make it special

There was the sitting silently gazing at the flames, someone snoozing, someone watching Dr Who, someone furtively chatting on FaceBook

There was the cup of tea, mince pies, shortbread, white chocolates with snowflakes on them, little silver stars that made up our festive dessert

And then there was the declaration that it had been a perfectly lovely Christmas Day

Our little family Christmas is my special gift to my Rags. It is my expression of how much I love them and how much I appreciate them. And Christmas 2011 was another little treasure, for which I am very grateful. Very grateful indeed.

Merry Christmas

2011-12-25T00:38:00.004+01:00

I wish you all a Christmas filled with love and laughter

From my home and heart to yours

Mouse

Ice skating at Hampton Court

2011-12-24T19:00:00.010+01:00

Hampton Court, built for Cardinal Wolsey, purloined by Henry VIII for his love, Ann Boleyn...

One of my favourite places to visit in England

This afternoon I took The Rags for a Christmas Eve ice-skating session

They enjoyed mulled wine and mince pies during regular pauses to chat to Maman and pose for photos

The Ragazza rarely permits me to take her picture

She has inherited her mother's camera-phobia

I have no idea why, I think that she is lovely

The two people that I love most in the whole world

Watching them skating made me feel so proud, and so pleased that I taught them to skate, and to ski, and to swim, and to ride

We have had a great many wonderful adventures during the last twenty-four years

And who is this wearing a fleece from Finland, a woolly scarf and with a plait hanging below her shoulders?

Not quite the waist-length, thick, golden plaits that she had when she was seven years old but, you know, that fesity, adventurous, cheeky little kid lives on.

And next year she will be on the ice too!

Christmas Eve so far...

2011-12-24T13:10:00.003+01:00

House decorated and now suitably festive

Shortbread made

Ragazzo collected from the station

Offspring fed lunch, mincepies, shortbread biscuits and lots of maternal love

and now we're watching Santa

ww.noradsantwa.org/en/

and I am feeling incredible excited

dreams...

2011-12-24T09:18:00.004+01:00

Last night I had a dream, the contents of which were so very personal that I am unable to share them, even with you good readers. But the dream was so sharp it cut me emotionally, so honest it was as a slap on the face, and so revealing it stripped me to my skin.

It was a revelation as a real wake-up call to arms.

It showed me myself and my life

It told me that which I need to do

And so, as I finally begin to feel festive and set about making Christmas happen in the Doll's House, the memory and the message of that dream will, I am pretty sure, change my life.

Next year will be exciting indeed!

overheard on the radio

2011-12-23T08:46:00.002+01:00

Amazon, from whom I have purchased every one of my gifts to The Rags, are based in Luxemburg. So all of that VAT levied on the money that I spent, has gone to the government of that country. I was totally unaware of that. I had thought that amazon.co.uk meant just that. And I had never considered the whole e-commerce business in relation to where the money ends up. D'oh

Well, at the risk of sounding protectionist, nationalistic and mean, that will now end. In 2012 I will buy my books from Blackwell's in Oxford. This means, no more impulse buys and no more cardboard boxes filling my recycling bin. No, instead, when I wish to buy a book I will go to Oxford, spend a pleasant morning in The Ashmolean, enjoy a light lunch, and then pop into a real bookstore to browse the books. Is that not so much more attractive a proposition than sitting at a keyboard?

Also overheard, France has decided to flout EU law by not charging VAT on Kindle 'books' which, because they are electronic and not good old paper, renders them liable for that tax. I may or may not agree with this (I will never own a Kindle) but I could write a whole blog devoted to EU laws that France refuses to ratify...

Book:- (noun) A written or printed work consisting of pages glued or sewn together along one side and bound in covers.

December 20

2011-12-20T08:30:00.003+01:00

Sitting here with the Christmas tree giving off lovely pine-forest scents...

The small house is messy, there's an old Sony VAIO laptop half-under the couch, a long cable snaking across the floor (it never did manage to be wireless), a furry jacket on the chair and a wrapper from a tree chocolate lying on the floor. In the bathroom I daresay I will find bottles of beauty products and a faint whiff of Lush bath bombs.

The Ragazza is home for Christmas

She arrived early, because, as she and her brother decided yesterday morning, "Home is where Mom is" and that, readers, is my best and sparkliest present ever.

Her brother will arrive on Christmas Eve, he has music to make in three cities with his band. All I will say is that if he is not at Hampton Court ice rink by 2pm then Ann and Catherine's heads will not be the only ones rolling. Right Henry???

on late marriages...

2011-12-19T08:03:00.003+01:00

The thing is, most people my age have been married for three decades and have thus acquired a shared history of that first sexual attraction and courtship, having babies and raising a family. They've lived through life's ups and downs and with all of that they have cemented their bonds to each other. They have grown comfortable with each other's quirks and ways. Like a pair of old slippers you can't bear to throw out.

When you are a woman in your fifties, past child-bearing age, with wrinkles and some grey hair and a body that is starting to show the signs of wear and tear you are, biologically-speaking, no longer viable. You have past your sell-by date. You are old stock growing dusty on the shelf. In past times you would have been dead already.

Men, on the other hand, even men of your own age, are still drawn to fertile, young women, and those young women are probably attracted to them because they are good providers for their potential young. It's nature doing its best to propagate the species.

So no, after much thought and reflection, I do not expect to be married in 2012
And if I am, if by some weird blip in the Universe I do find a soulmate, then I will eat my furry Finnish hat!

scarey

2011-12-18T21:01:00.002+01:00

I was sitting here, between baking batches of mince pies, idly wondering what next year will bring. I know what I'd like and I intend to do all in my power to make it happen but sometimes we are at the mercy of people and forces beyond our control...

Anyway, I was sitting here wondering and I suddenly had this strong conviction that next year I will marry again.

A weird feeling, given that I was unhappily married for more years than I care to admit and viewed His pronouncement that he planned to leave The Rags and me with a sense of relief so heady I thanked him from the bottom of my aching. lonely heart, that there is no man in my life and I have no-one even vaguely on the horizon and, more to the point, I am perfectly content in my celibacy and have no desire to enter into a relationship. I am single and perfectly self-sufficient.

So this sudden and unexpectedly strong conviction caught me by surprise and made me wonder if perhaps I am losing the plot.

Interesting, we shall see...

signs...

2011-12-18T09:19:00.002+01:00

"Do you believe in signs?"

I used to believe in signs.
When I was depressed and anxious I sought signs and clung to them like flotsam and jetsam that would carry me to safety in a rough sea. Safely to the beach. Depression does that to a person. It makes them drift helplessly on the tide that carries them to a whirlpool, or jagged rocks, or way too far out to sea to ever be able to return.

For a while I also believed in God. And angels.

Believing in signs and fate and angels is too easy.
It is relinquishing control of one's life.
It is walking a path of least resistance.

I no longer believe. Not in signs, or an almighty creator, or angels.

What I do believe is that the signs that I was seeing were of my own making, and that by reading those signs I would finally understand who I am and what I needed to do to be happy. They were my subconscious asking to be heard.

Sometime during the last year I finally let go of that driftwood. I think I grew tired of bobbing about at the mercy of the current and decided that I had to start swimming for the shore. I had to take back control. Stop making feeble excuses, stop blaming fate, stop floating out to sea.

It is quite amazing how strong one becomes when one finally takes back control.
Small successes, one by one, grow into larger triumphs.
Small steps forward take you back to your path.
Small rewards that you have earned.

And there is the certainty that, with hard work and determination and a good dollop of imagination, you can do whatever you desire to do.

When you think about it, it is much better to be actively steering your own ship than clinging to that piece of driftwood.
And if you do hit the rocks once in a while then you have only yourself to blame.
And that is also quite empowering

Plans for Sunday...

2011-12-17T20:27:00.004+01:00

Christmas.

Rumour has it that there are only seven days left before Christmas. In that case it is time to begin preparing, I think. Alas, I am not good at shopping, especially when faced with prices that I know will be reduced on Boxing Day. Especially when I feel that I am being manipulated into filling the stores' coffers. Especially as I am now trying to save money.

But, this morning I ventured forth in search of a tree. I found one at a nursery on the road to the house I rented for the first two years. Is it not odd how nostalgic we can feel for things in the past even as those times were not the happiest? Why is that, I wonder? Is it our minds protecting us from bad memories by painting the past in a rosy hue? If so then it's a good thing, so long as we learn our lessons from past mistakes and do not carry emotional baggage with us.

I had thought to buy myself a nice new sweater. I am notoriously bad when it comes to buying clothes, I drive The Ragazza nuts with my inability to find anything on which I am prepared to spend money. Many's the time we've been shopping together and she's persuaded me to buy an outfit only for me to return it a week later.

Today I bought a brand new coat. A rather smart new coat. For the dog.

So, now I have a tree and a wreath on the door and the large jar of mincemeat I made last week, it's time to really get cracking and serious about Christmas.

Plans for tomorrow:
1. Decorate the tree and the house
2. Make mincepies
3. Make gingerbread men
4. Wrap presents
5. A long walk with the smartly dressed dog
6. The rest of the ironing
7. Make shortbread
8. That long, hot soak in the bath
9. Write to friends in France
10. That's all folks

Hope your own plans are progressing nicely

standing up

2011-12-17T09:29:00.002+01:00

for oneself...

Of all the lessons that I have learned during the last three years the most important, and valuable, is to stand up for myself. Not in a loud or pushy way, not at all, but, when I feel that someone or something is not treating me fairly, I speak out quietly but firmly and insistently.

For example, that incident with Littlewoods catalogue company who charged me for being two days early with a payment and noted a black mark on my credit score. I contacted them and was repeatedly informed that they would not budge an inch. I e-mailed every day, I must have been in contact with each and every one of their 'customer representatives' until finally the manager replied to say that they had removed the charge and the negative credit score. Fine by me, fairness had been restored although I will never buy anything from them again.

Yesterday I came home to find a letter from my credit card company, Capital One. When I returned from France I had no credit card and a low salary and was renting my house. All definite negatives for my credit rating. In the midst of the credit crunch, while we were paying the price for the banks' stupidity, my own bank refused me a credit card. I applied to Capital One and was given one of those that has a high interest rate that is reduced every six months if I behave myself. The letter told me that I had not behaved myself, in the last six months I had either missed a payment or exceeded my credit limit, the rate would remain high. I rang them, please tell me when I have done either of these things, I asked, give me dates and numbers. The man in India kept me waiting for a long time while he checked my records and then I asked that they call me back when they have an answer. I am waiting for the call this morning that will say "We made a mistake". I may, politely, point out that they have breached the terms of our agreement, I may just accept the apology and the lower credit rate. It matters not so long as they put the matter right.

And The Cowboy. After five years and much stress I have decided that I will write to the French tax office and send them copies of his so-called receipts so that I can be assured that he did declare the income he received from the work he did for me. If, as I suspect, he did not declare the income, he will receive a bill for around 7000 euros for unpaid taxes and a fine. I have hesitated to do this for too long, I have worried that I was being vindictive because he bullied me. I have finally decided that no, I am simply putting right a wrong.

I suspect that my correspondence with my MEP concerning the attitude of French towards non-French residents applying for jobs may not be quite so easy. In my opinion the refusal of the French state to recognise UK qualifications is a blatant abuse of the equality laws of the EU. It is also insulting to all of the teachers, doctors, nurses who are refused work in their field in France. The French are notoriously protective of their own interests, an EU law that does not suit them is simply not ratified in France. This is unfair. So my MEP and I are 'in discussion'. I am hoping that she will take this seriously and raise the matter in the EU Parliament. I doubt that she will force the French to change their ways but you never know.

The point of all this is really to suggest that it is time that we, the people, stood up for our right to be treated fairly, it is time that They, the large corporations, the governments, the people in power, remembered that they rely on us for their existence, it is time for the small voice to be heard.

N'est-ce pas?

busy...

2011-12-16T07:50:00.002+01:00

Coping with a new direction at work which involves my getting really down and dirty with the malicious code and the tools that we have to handle it. It's fun for me, I've always liked to work at the machine-code level, Assembler programming mainframes was my favourite task, but it is so very complicated and there is so much to know. I am handling it byte by byte, producing pages and pages of notes and codes on the A3 paper that I also use for my OU work, so in between sheets devoted to the history of English and French verbs and grammar notes and the colonisation of Indochina/war in Algeria/politics etc etc, there are now the hieroglyphics of my work. I like it, it suits me to have a whole week's worth of studying/work on a single sheet, complete with flow charts/mind maps/ pictures and doodles.

And preparing for the start of my next OU French course next year. The one that I am going to do so well that they award me a distinction. It's possible, it just requires hard work and dedication and that I can do.

And planning Christmas fun for The Rags and I...

Ice skating at Hampton Court on Christmas Eve...

Christmas Day with dinner in front of the fire and games and old films and enjoying the company of my wonderful kids...

Boxing Day walking the dog and eating cold turkey and pickles and reading and writing..

A nice, sparkly, fun few days, break from routine in the middle of winter

Forget the advertisers' hype, the groaning credit card bills, the stress and the worry, Christmas is all about sharing with the people you love and being happy.

N'est-ce pas?

I hope that your own plans are proceeding well....

And that it snows soon!

Beware Geeks...

2011-12-12T08:18:00.002+01:00

This morning I read a blog that had falling snow effects. Obviously I was impressed. Snow!

I thought that would be a nice festive touch, falling snow, so went to investigate.

At the risk of sounding like a party-pooper, I was horrified by the list of so-called widgets/gadgets/code available to bloggers and the apparent popularity of such things.

People, please, think twice before adding unknown code to your blog

and yes, I think I may spend the morning checking some of it out so if there are any Bad Guys seeking to spread malware by such means this Christmas I am after you

Plans for Sunday

2011-12-11T08:46:00.002+01:00

1. Clean the house, I refuse to even contemplate Christmas decorations until the house has been thoroughly cleaned. At this rate it may be Easter before I decorate the tree!

2. Do the ironing. Blame SP for that one, that lady even irons her undies. She has shamed me into tackling my mound of ironing.

3. Make a jar of mincemeat. The jars that I gave to friends in France looked good, for a first attempt, and now I know that real people ate of one such jar and lived to tell the tale...

4. Research the art of soap making. If I am to continue to be addicted to pretty little soaps shaped like hearts and stuff and smelling lush, then I must learn to make my own. Who knows, there may be soapsy suddsy gifts soon.

5. Read a real book.

6. Eat a healthy dinner. I am tired of food, my jaded palate needs a boost. A vegetable stir-fry with noodles may be the perfect plate.

7. Resist the urge to buy an expensive Hebrew course. I was looking at images of The Dead Sea Scrolls earlier and thought it would be nice to be able to write Hebrew. I know, it's silly to buy a course on such a whim, especially as I already have two Hebrew courses sitting on the shelves at The FVH.

8. Spend some time working on Plan D in which I become such a genius malware analyst my employer not only agrees to my working remotely from France but also offers to pay my re-relocation costs. I seem to recall a time when relocation costs were paid to new employers, mine came to about £4000 if you count the cost or bringing back The Ark, half of my furniture and me, of registering my French car in the UK and the colossal costs of rental agent fees. With the low salary I was earning for the first two years I reckon it cost me £15000 to come back to the corporate cage.

9. Soak in the bath. I rarely soak in the bath. I used to soak in the bath on Sunday evenings, floating in lavender and geranium scented bubbles while watching candles flicker. I seem to have lost the art of relaxing. The last time I attempted a soak in the bath the dog tried to join me.

10. I don't think there is a 10.

Happy Sunday one and all, whatever your plans...

oh dear

2011-12-10T07:55:00.004+01:00

My commenting colleague will vouch for my state of health last week, not good, not good at all.

And that led to me making a silly little mistake on Wednesday which, being a supposed expert in the field, led to An E-Mail from a different time-zone to point out my slip-up and to ask How Could I Be So Careless? And true to form I reacted by working my little socks off on Friday, to the extent that many, many Bad Guys were thwarted in their evil plans to steal from the innocent. And ended the week exhausted and weepy and wanting my Mum which, if you know the story of my Mum, shows just how low I plummeted.

What my commenting colleague won't know is that I was grumpy and cross as well!

Honestly, all week I was annoyed with folk, from the woman in Costa who left a tap running the entire 15 minutes that it took her to make my life-saving latte while I was mentally composing letters to her employer to suggest they invest some of their profits in wells in Africa, to the driver who deliberately drove through two red lights and almost caused a crash involving a woman with a pushchair and another motorist, to the anonymous person who is waging a war against local dog owners which results in letters from the council complaining of canine noise where there is none, to the people in the office who brought in a plastic Santa that 'sings' Christmas songs while some of us are trying to write complex code and those whose irritating phone ring tones frequently disturb us as we work, to....

This last week I was very grumpy indeed.

People have made me very grumpy indeed.

The lack of consideration of people has made me very grumpy indeed.

So it will be rather nice to go into work today. The office will be empty, save for a few people dotted around the building, mostly out of sight. It will be quiet and peaceful and I will be able to focus on my tasks without fear of distraction and irritation. It will be like working remotely. Have I told you how much I wish to work remotely? If I keep up this Grumpy Old Bird act then my employer may also see the sense in sending me back to Brittany!

thought for Thursday

2011-12-08T20:11:00.000+01:00

b'ah humbug

2011-12-04T09:21:00.005+01:00

Is anyone else not feeling festive yet?

Does anyone else view the torrent of TV ads telling us that if we buy this perfume, that alcohol, those gifts, we will enjoy a Dickensian-Christmas full of cheer with a dollop of distaste and a whole serving of cynicism?

I am simply unable to feel festive while the weather is so mild that I can still wander the green wearing flip-flops and a thin, cotton skirt. While I am still picking tomatoes in England (and recently raspberries in Brittany). While my roses are blooming.

No, I need cold weather, a decent, hard frost will do it, snow will send me into a veritable tizzy of excitement involving my furry Finnish boots with matching hat and gloves and much walking in drifts and eating of snow while trying to resist the temptation to make snow angels. Those who've been with me a while will smile, my passion for snow is well-known. I love snow.

I also need my Rags around me.

I have only passed one Christmas without them since they were born. That was the the one I spent with The Someone and it was lovely but strange not to have my kids with me.

Christmas is a Big Deal in our family. But it is not a time of over-indulgence and expense. A few years ago we opted for The Ethical Christmas . That was the year that my mother came for Christmas and we finally discovered our mother-daughter bond. It was also to be the last time that I saw her, she died a few days later at home in York.

Christmas is such an important time. It is a light in the depths of winter. It is a renewing of old friendships and a binding of new ties. It is the giving of love and the sharing of fun. It is when our true natures are revealed.

I will feel festive soon.

I will clean the house, decorate a tree, hang snowflakes and lights everywhere.

I will wrap parcels and write cards.

I will send the turkey money to Africa.

But please, please, it really would help if we could have snow...

PS ok, now I feel more festive. A happy post from secretly skint has really made me smile!

PPS strong, alarming meds swallowed, dutifully obeyed orders to pass a whole week without my dinner drink of cheap fizzy plonk with cassis, no side-effects except for a very efficient digestive system, still suspect the infection remains. I have now named it Terminator Tooth Infection because it appears to be indestructible. Next step is the threatened extraction. For the last few nights I have dreamed that I moved to Israel to live on a kibbutz and during the first communal dinner my teeth dropped out one by one. The Tooth Fairy is known as The Tooth Mouse in France. I wonder if there is a link....

making plans...

2011-12-03T12:03:00.003+01:00

This morning I watched a TV programme about making money. Lots of money. Millions of money. It was interesting but sad. The three people upon whom it focused had all bought into the "You Can Be A Millionaire" message, spent a great deal on courses run by American money-making gurus and ended up with large debts and, in one case, also a blown inheritance. Granted, one woman had made millions through investing in property but she was the exception. It seemed to me that the only people who made their fortunes from the idea were those running the courses.

I felt a little nauseated by the whole thing.

I like the idea of financial independence. Who doesn't? Especially in these troubled times when 'bank' has become a dirty word. Do you remember when bank managers were trusted, responsible people? When 'to bank money' meant placing it somewhere safe? The days before spotty kids in flash suits got paid obscene salaries to gamble with our money? I fear it may be a long, long time before the banks learn the lessons and act responsibly again. So I like the idea of independence but not of speculation and profiteering and rampant greed.

But one thing did remain with me from that programme. The realisation that my house in France is my main asset and that it should earn its keep. And with that in mind I am hatching plans to use it for a variety of purposes which should, if successful, furnish the funds to maintain it nicely even if I am obliged to be here in the UK for most of my time. These ideas are not going to make me millions but they should be fulfilling and fun for me and for others. And that, surely, is the best success?

n'est-ce pas?

karma aside...

2011-12-01T07:35:00.004+01:00

One comment in response to yesterday's post remarked that my dominant willingness gene is bringing me good karma and as one who believes in karma, dharma and samsara, this was heart-warming and reassuring. But still I am reflecting on my constant habit of putting others first, sometimes at the expense of my own well-being.

And the colleague who remarked that I am tired was correct. After a day at work I am so tired that I can barely function when I arrive home. Indeed, were it not for the needs of my pets I would probably walk through the door, climb the steep stairs and fall straight into bed each evening.

I work too hard. T'was ever thus. I will never change. In all honesty I do not wish to change. Working hard makes me feel fulfilled, it satisfies my desire to prove my worth, it enables me to convince myself that I am smart and capable. It helps, just a little, to dispel the self-doubts that I have carried with me since my childhood.

But I enjoy my work. I always have, in every job I have ever held I have found some aspect that fascinated me and in which I could find pleasure. And this job is so very fascinating and so very complex and mind-stretching it is perfect for me. Added to which it is providing a service to others even as they do not know that my daily efforts help to protect them in cyberspace. I have always been at my best when helping others.

I am not a gregarious soul. I do not enjoy parties and pubs and places where people congregate to have fun. I do not feel at ease if I am forced to run with the herd. I do not like crowds. I prefer to deal with people as individuals, in small, cosy groups. I like to hear the small, quiet voices that often speak the truth rather than the clamour of the masses singing a collective chorus.

I do not enjoy fame. I quite like being praised when I have done well, I like to receive recognition, but the back-slapping of sales, the front-of-house face of publicity and the focused attention of strangers do not suit me. I will not step willingly under a spotlight.

No, I like to work hard and then come home, draw the curtains, light the candles and the fire and curl up safe in my cocoon with a good book and a tasty supper and a glass of wine. I like to spend my spare time wandering the halls of dusty museums, striding through fields and forests, sitting in stone circles, learning, learning, always learning.

The trick is to be able to work hard and still have the time and energy for the other things that I enjoy. And that may well mean learning to say No to the demands of others from time to time. And learning to accept that I am not solely responsible for everything that needs to be done at the office. And realising that I do not have to carry quite so much weight on my small shoulders.

Today I will try to focus a little more on my own needs and desires.

Tell me, why does that sound so darned selfish to me?

PS My weekend's fun is to be found here a little code-breaking....

And if it looks like a foreign language to you, bear in mind that I can read and understand Spanish, Portuguese, Italian and, of course, French and that I 'read' code such as this every day at work. It's all a matter of thinking differently, of understanding the rules and of reading the meaning behind the code. It's simply another language...

what's in it for me?

2011-11-30T06:36:00.002+01:00

When I worked for The Beast it was as a post-sales support analyst.

This was a role which received no recognition or reward from the company at large, unlike the pre-sales people who were on the sales radar because they were directly involved in their potential deals. Post-sales handled problems with the products once they had been bought and sales and pre-sales had moved on to fresh fields of conquest, and the potential large bonuses they brought. We were at the bottom of the food-chain, invisible, unloved.

I cared not. I loved resolving issues, pin-pointing the problem, gathering diagnostics, working with maintenance and development to get a fix, hand-holding the customers while they applied and tested it, reporting back on the results, keeping the customer happy.

After a while my then-manager suggested I move to pre-sales. I'd had extensive on-site customer-facing experience in the past, I was a good communicator and a hard-worker, it would have been a good move for me, career-wise. But I was a newly-single mother with two Rags at home and I couldn't travel round the country as a piece of sales' equipment. I declined.

And then the company bought another and with it came The Product.

I loved The Product with a passion. For an ex-systems programmer who knew mainframe operating systems internals it was a delight. And The Product was good, the best, worth its weight in gold.

I became an advocate for The Product, its cheer-leader, its fan, Little Miss Product Support. It gave me the chance to be a techie again because the developers and maintenance guys were real techies and they happily shared with me the details of its inner-most workings.

So in love with it was I that I began to sell it. When sales had a potential customer I worked directly with that company's systems programmers to help them to install it, fine-tune it, fix any potential issues, and then I demonstrated it during long phone calls. With The Product's wonders and my enthusiasm I sold it to them. It was not my job. It was way beyond my remit. It took a lot of time and energy. I did it for love and because I passionately believed in The Product.

There was nothing in it for me, save for the immense pleasure I got from working with The Product's US team and knowing I had one more customer using it.

It is a measure of my love for that software that when my new manager was trying to edge me from my team leader role in order to make the ill-conceived changes that he knew I would never accept, after all that he did to push me to the sidelines, the bullying that I bore, the hoops I was forced to jump through, the constant pressure to yield, after all that he finally found my weakness. He told me that in order to keep my role I would have to hand the technical work to someone else. I would have to give The Product to a less-able person and walk away. I refused, took a 15% pay cut, lost my meagre perks but kept The Product.

I was reminded of the 'what's in it for me' yesterday.

I was working flat-out handling several high-priority issues, juggling with the workload, keeping several plates spinning, when I picked up an innocuous piece of malware to analyse. As luck would have it it was the latest social-networking site infection and high profile. A colleague in another department wanted details, pictures, screen shots. I ran around in circles to provide him with what he requested with the kind assistance of a co-worker. It was not strictly my role, other people told me to decline his constant requests for more and more. I'd analysed it and written detection for it, that was my job done, but when he shouted 'jump' I jumped.

There was nothing in it for me.

So why did I do it?

This morning I am still reflecting on the incident. Still wondering if I am foolish to keep jumping through the hoops that will only bring glory to other people. Still asking myself how much better it would be for me, personally, if I focused only on the work that will benefit me. Still realising that I will never, ever change even though I know that there is nothing in it for me.

inspiration....

2011-11-29T08:19:00.003+01:00

I've been seeking inspiration from people with a positive attitude...

Like my friend S. who successfully worked as a lecturer at a French university despite having no formal qualifications and who is now happily running a business back in England.

And a former colleague who worked her way up the career ladder while also studying for a degree, MA and doctorate.

I think that what these people have in common is a belief in themselves and the willingness to work hard, to focus on their goals and to really enjoy what they do.

But what they really teach me is that pretty much anything is possible

Sunday in the office...

2011-11-27T08:10:00.006+01:00

A day at work. So no tender roast beef with all the trimmings dinner this Sunday. No long, reflective walk with the dog (who dragged me from my bed twice in the night resulting in a mere three hours sleep). No quiet afternoon spent reading. None of that. Instead I will be at work.

If you had told me five years ago when I was happily living in Brittany that I would now be spending my Sunday fighting Bad Guys in cyberspace I would have politely suggested you'd partaken of one too may glasses of Ricard. Funny how life turns out, isn't it?

So, sighs deeply, Sunday is my favourite weekend day, much as I love my work it's tough sometimes to have to spend Sunday in the office.

This evening I have promised myself a quiet, offline, unwired, disconnected few hours.

Candles flickering, dog snoozing, pages of a book turning...

Peace and serenity

random ramblings on reality...

2011-11-26T10:57:00.012+01:00

Which I hope you will excuse, I've been up most of the night with a sick dog so, save for one delicious hour of sweet sleep during which I dreamed that The Velvet Glove (see Iron Fist) had an infected computer and I had to pluck up the courage to inform her that she was sending spam e-mails into cyberspace (analyse THAT one Freud), save for that one hour I have been awake for a total of 30 hours.

And those thirty hours included yet another visit to the dentist (see phobia) with yet another X-ray (see infected molar) and yet another departure clutching a prescription for the strongest antibiotics possible and the threat of an extraction should the infection remain in seven day's time (see I have no immune system). On the plus side my dentist smiled sweetly when I talked to her in Portuguese, no mean feat with a numb right jaw although I do believe it helped me to pronounce those distinctive dipthongs quite well.

And a bill from SAUR for my water consumption in Britanny, all 2.3 litres of it (see I couldn't lift the lid to turn on the tap outside the last time). I react to official letters from France in a similar way to how I react to a trip to the dentist.

And now I've gone all italic and have no idea why and am too tired to correct it. Which brings me neatly back to a night without sleep.

I am reluctant to take the antibiotics because the contraindications include psychosis. I experienced a few episodes of pyschosis when I was burning-out at the Beast and there is no way I am ever going to open that door again, not even just a smidgeon, because on the other side there is a whole world of distorted reality and demons in which the sufferer is trapped by the misfirings and wrong connections of their neurones. No, I'd rather have all of my teeth extracted without anaesthetic that venture there again.

All of which lead me to thinking, as I walked the dog this morning, about reality.

Is my reality (back to a normal font by the way), is my reality the same as your reality? I think not. Our individuals realities are shaped by the signals we receive from the outside world, so my green grass may be, to you, the shade that I would call purple and the honking of the geese flying overhead may not be the same sound that you hear. In fact, given our different sensory apparatus and the brains behind it, it's pretty certain that we both do process external stimuli differently.

And even if we were to see everything the same, we'd still be looking at it from different angles. You may walk with me across the green and see a few nice trees, lots of grass, houses in the distance, while I am focusing on the lichen growing on a tree trunk, a drop of water suspended from a branch and the one leaf still clinging to a twig. You may focus on the bigger picture, I always see the smallest details.

And then there's the emotional side of reality. You may see a house and think "nice house, pretty little windows, neat garden, bet it's expensive" and I look at the same house and see "safety, security, someone's home" because to me a house is very closely tied to the insecurities that I'd developed since leaving my own in France and being obliged to rent other people's houses here in the UK.

So everyone's reality is conditioned by their physical being, their mental state and their past experiences. And that informs their actions and their behaviour and how they live their lives.

So, a not-entirely random question, "If you were in The Matrix, which pill would you take?"

"You take the blue pill – the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill – you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes." -Morpheus

(IMDb.com)

Perhaps more importantly, how do you know that you haven't already swallowed the red pill?

and with that, I am off to spend my one-day weekend studying the development of language...

hunkering down...

2011-11-23T07:46:00.007+01:00

It's that time of year...

The shortening days and the lengthening nights make me feel as if my world is being narrowed, pulled tight and confined. The autumn damp air seeps into my bones and makes me ache. If it weren't for the possibility of snow I would consider hibernating.

I do not feel festive, the Christmas-hype that is gathering momentum makes me cross. I will not be jollied into wasting money on over-priced flipperies just so that I can join the Merry Christmas Bandwagon. And so they make me feel like Scrooge.

I am drawn to the colours of the sun. I consider buying red cushions, light orange-scented candles, decide that this weekend I will light the fire for the first time this season. I am a moth with tattered, wet wings longing for a flame.

It is not depressing. Not this year. I have plans and projects to occupy my mind. I contemplate the commencement of my next OU course and the books/CD's/DVD's that will soon arrive, and in anticipation and to encourage myself I stick a list of my qualification on the bedroom wall and consider framing my certificates.

I have books to read, DVDs to watch, the next set of work-skills to master. I have wool for throws and a pretty bedspread. I have a world of cookbooks to explore, new dishes to cook, new cakes to bake.

The old year is winding down

and I am hunkering down for the winter

Cyber Security - Part 5 Trojan horses

2011-11-20T08:23:00.008+01:00

A destructive program that masquerades as a benign application. Unlike viruses, Trojan horses do not replicate themselves, but they can be just as destructive. One of the most insidious types of Trojan horse is a program that claims to rid a computer of viruses but instead introduces viruses onto the computer.

Wikipedia

Right away I have problems with this definition. The frequent use of the term 'virus' instead of 'malware', the... no, let's give you my own definition

A Trojan horse is a malicious computer programme that poses as a desirable application, such as a FaceBook 'extra', an interesting YouTube video, a clean-up tool, a mobile phone App etc, in order to entice the public to download it onto their computer/phone.

The purposes of Trojan horse may be:

1. To install further malware on the infected computer - many act as 'carriers' of further infections

2. Key-stroke loggers which record everything that is done on the computer and send copies back to the Bad Guys, e-mails you have sent, your online bank log-in and passwords, your credit card details when you purchase something online, the websites you visit, anything you do. As mentioned previously the first key-stroke logger that I analysed took snap shots of my screen as I analysed it and stored them in a hidden folder. If you have a key-stroke logger on your computer it is as if the Bad Guys are sitting next to you watching everything you do and making notes.

3. Banking Trojans. My favourite, probably because many originate in Brazil and I get the chance to practice my Portuguese (password - senha etc). Perhaps because they are so very clever and so very harmful. Banking Trojans will be discussed in depth in a later post.

4. Backdoor Trojans. They open up a door to your computer through which the Bad Guys can enter and exit at any time they wish.

5. Botnets. Once infected your computer becomes a member of a group of thousands of others which the Bad Guys use to launch large-scale attacks on company computers, to send spam in huge quantities, to spread infections to other computers etc etc. If your computer is in a botnet it is doing the work of the Bad Guys.

6. FakeAV. Also to be discussed in depth later but this Trojan pops up a window that tells you that your computer is infected with many malwares and can clean it for you, at a price. The price is sometimes the loss of a few pounds to purchase a useless piece of software, or the loss of your credit card details when you do so or, more seriously, the downloading of a really nasty piece of malware when you agree to install the FakeAV. The Ragazzo once rang me to tell me his father's computer had become infected and when he'd downloaded the free tool nothing happened. A little detective work revealed that the free tool was a banking Trojan.

These are the most common, there are more, but you get the idea. Trojan horses are really bad news. They are difficult to detect, they are highly malicious and they are very dangerous. They currently account for around 90% of all malware.

The previously discussed security measures apply to Trojan horses but with one extra piece of advice "Beware Geeks bearing gifts".

leaving Brittany, the end of the story...

2011-11-19T11:47:00.013+01:00

My last day in Brittany was relaxed and calmer so I had time to pop into the church again.

I stood and admired the flowers, alas, no longer the work of my friend H. in whose company I once spent a lovely morning arranging the flowers from her own garden.

I took some photos and admired the stained glass

Stood bathed in silence and the warmth of the sun's rays

But I did not pray, not this time

And then it was time to leave for the night sailing to Portsmouth.

As always the roads were quite empty and the drive was pleasant and picturesque.

I arrived in St Malo just as the sun was sinking into the sea.

The ferry was lit up like a Christmas tree.

It is always reassuring to arrive at the port and see one's ferry there, waiting.

But oh the long wait to board, the reading of the neon sign that tells one that boarding will commence at 6pm, that pets must be declared in the terminal, that the ferry will leave at 10pm, that Brittany Ferries welcomes you.

In French and in English

Although the French is more polite

And then The Ramp.

It doesn't look so bad here, does it? Trust me, it is a daunting prospect, especially when one is obliged to stop mid-ramp with the car in front rolling ever-so slowly backwards and the one behind practically on one's bumper.

As usual I delayed until I thought that I could make it up in one frantic clutch and accelerator burning dash and made it to the top, but only just. My front tires were clinging on like a man hanging off the ledge of a tall building and my back tyres were still on the ramp.

The menu in the restaurant was the same as on the crossing over and the Hercule Poirot look-alike was standing at the door so I decided to eat in the self-service place instead.

Roast chicken and chips with a pepper sauce, creme brulee and a small bottle of wine. Around 15 euros and worth every centime.

On deck I chatted to a great many people...

A woman who'd been visiting Carcassone told me her touristy tales and recommended the region most highly...

A man whose caravan had been the subject of intense scrutiny by customs told me the story behind it...

A woman from Josselin treated me to a Geordie gossip about her French neighbours and northern friends...

A man with a laptop persuaded me to check his security settings and give an impromptu lecture on malware

And then I retired to my cabin with a cup of tea and a bag of Revels to sit in Papa Bear's Bunk and watch an episode of Spooks on my laptop. By the time it had finished and I had showered and undressed for bed we were just ready to sail. And so I spent a peaceful night on the ocean waves once more.

The next morning I was back on deck and keen to take more photographs but I was waylaid by a man from Dinan who wanted to tell me his life story and by the time he'd finished we were approaching Portsmouth. I drove off the ferry and into a beautiful sunny Sunday morning.

Mindful of my mistake in avoiding the eye of the customs man last time, I smiled broadly at this one as I drove towards him and he rewarded me by indicating that I must pull into the customs hall where my car was stripped of all its contents and I was interrogated for twenty minutes.

It was an interesting encounter and I had to smile at the sight of one customs official carefully holding a box of H's eggs while his colleague examined the bag of rubbish that I'd forgotten to leave at the bins in the village. 12 bottles of wine, 20 bottles of beer, three bottles of Cassis and a jar of Bonne Maman jam were all that they found. They declined to be photographed for my blog for security reasons, bid me a good journey and I was on my home, back to The Doll's House.

PS for a Saturday smile visit http://bradstockboys.blogspot.com/ and view the stairs video

I loved it!

deserving, desperate, disappointed

2011-11-19T09:58:00.002+01:00

In a pique, I was all ready to throw in the towel and walk out of the office yesterday, but I did that once before, five years ago I limped away from work that I enjoyed, customers to whom I was dedicated and The Product that I adored, because I failed to stand up for myself. I was not going to let history repeat itself.

I returned to my desk and took out my frustrations on some malware, smacked a whole load of spam, and blocked some name servers. It felt good, positive, practical.

But as I drove home I was listening to a CD and the Keith Urban sang that line that always reduces me to tears of self-pity "You've been stretched to the limit but it's alright now..." and I wept again. At the risk of spreading self-pity I have been stretched to the limit repeatedly for the last few years, stretched almost to snapping point. But I haven't snapped yet.

I came home to spend an evening kicking myself for my cowardice, beating myself up for being a mouse, berating myself for my failure. It was not a good evening. When I finally fell asleep I had such sad dreams that I awoke at 3am in tears. 3am, that terrible time when we are at our most vulnerable and lowest. I crept from the ship-wreck of my bed, came downstairs and sat with my laptop on my knees, the only light in the deep darkness and poured all of my emotions into a new chapter of The Book. The chapter in which our heroine first admits to her failures. It was therapeutic and calming, it was a positive act. It helped to stop the tears.

And then I thought about the previous day.

So I hadn't talked about my own personal problems during that lunch but then it wasn't the right time to do so. I was right not to bring it up in public like that.

So I had come over as Polly Anna on Prozac but that is who and what I am. Outwardly enthusiastic and bubbly and yet taking medication for depression.

So I hadn't asked for permission to work remotely from France but then neither had that request been refused again.

Plan D is not dead.

Plan D simply requires a thoughtful and considered approach at the right time.

Plan D requires some hard work on my part to make it a reality.

I have always worked hard for everything that I have received. I wouldn't want it any other way. The sense of satisfaction that comes from knowing that I am making my way on my own merits is something that I value. So now I have to work hard at this and if I do pull it off it will be because I have earned it.

Plan D starts now...

meeting shmeeting

2011-11-19T04:16:00.002+01:00

You want to know how it went, honestly?

I wimped out and went into mouse-mode.

I was all smiling and dishing out the food to the others present.

I told everyone how much I love my work and that the company is the best I've ever worked for.

I was Polly-Anna on Prozac.

While the others moaned to The Iron Fist (good name Fantasy Lass), I sat silent.

Afterwards I sat in my car berating myself for being such a push-over and sobbing

And then I returned to my desk and wrote a detection to block several hundred bank Trojans.

Plan E?

Plan D

2011-11-17T08:42:00.005+01:00

In battle, in the forest, at the precipice in the mountains, On the dark great sea, in the midst of javelins and arrows, In sleep, in confusion, in the depths of shame, The good deeds a man has done before defend him
Bhagavad Gita

Thank you all for your thoughtful and encouraging comments, it means a great deal to me to have your support and interest, you are the reason why I write this blog.

Here is the plan.

I persuade my employers to allow me to work remotely from France. I return to my home and I set about making it the loveliest of places, full of warmth and charm and joie de vivre once more. In my experience one's surroundings seriously affect one's mood and sense of well-being, I realised that when I was living in the first rented house in England which made me depressed and low and then, when I moved to the Doll's House it was as if the sun had come out from behind the clouds. So, The FVH will become a haven of loveliness. And I need a new name for it, something less formal and cold, something more fitting so suggestions please...

I work from France. I will be earning a decent amount to enable me to save a little, even allowing for French taxes and financial burdens and to give me a good standard of living. The work, which I adore, will be a rock on which to anchor myself, being an anxious type I do need that rock to stop me from drifting into depression. It will also give me a sense of connection to the outside world and a sense of purpose.

In my spare time I offer English lessons, free, for French young people. They can come to my house and spend half a day immersed in English. We will engage in activities which they will enjoy, discuss topics that interest them, I will teach them well, I am a good teacher. Perhaps during holiday times I can offer a more structured and formal course at a local college. This will give me great pleasure and, I'm afraid to admit to this, cock a snoop at The Cowboy and his missus who are doing this for profit and not for a love of linguistics.

In the summer I will offer B&B at weekends to people who wish to come and spend a relaxing couple of days in the Breton countryside. My house is happiest when filled with the sounds of laughter and of people having fun and I love to cook and care for people. They will arrive as strangers and leave as friends, I hope.

And during the winter evenings I will write my books. Curled up in a chair in front of the stove with candles flickering, a glass of wine, some nice music playing, I will write.

I think that the best way to beat The Cowboy would be to return and lead a wonderful life.

So, now I have to convince my employer to let me go back.

No mean feat, although both my manager and his manager are supportive, I still have to persuade the woman at the top of the tree that it would be in the interests of the company to have me remain as a remote worker.

I am having lunch with her tomorrow, that will be my chance to charm her....

Meanwhile, I am composing more posts about cyber security, I plan to explain worms, and trojans and things that infect mobile devices as well as a post devoted to FakeAV's and, of course banking Trojans, my favourite. If there is anything else that you guys need to know please leave a comment and I'll try to cover it.

The Cowboy and me....

2011-11-15T19:40:00.005+01:00

I was disappointed with myself. As we were leaving the church I caught sight of The Cowboy standing at the back with the other Brits and his mere presence made me tense and wary and brought back all of the bad feelings that I felt towards him.

By way of explanation, when I moved to France he made a great show of being amiable, capable and trustworthy. He is very plausible, he has the gift of the gab. My daughter and I welcomed him and his family to our home. They ate often at our table, attended all of our parties, aperitif evenings and BBQ's. Once or twice his wife turned up on my doorstep and talked about her worries over a bottle of wine. Her wayward daughter who had been taken into the French equivalent of care for troubled teenagers, her son who she thought had stolen money from her knicker drawer, that kind of thing. I sympathised, and when they asked if their son could live in my gite I agreed although he never actually moved in. Once The Cowboy himself turned up and cried on my shoulder about his sister's mental state and then, as a parting gift, told me that if I were ever alone and wanted company I should leave my outside light on and he would come calling. I declined to take him up on his offer, of course.

Since they ran a building business I had asked them to do some work on the house. Quite a lot of work, 11,000 euros worth of work. They had the Siret number provided by the French authorities and he had worked for the chambre de metiers and written books on running a business in France so I assumed he would be legitimate and know what he was doing. And that was when the problems started. Some of the work was ok but he over-charged me, he made a real mess of laying some laminate floors in the front bedrooms, so much so we ripped one of them up again, and when I asked for invoices he delayed and made feeble excuses and finally told me he'd already provided them. That was a blatant lie and I can only assume that he had failed to declare the income. Worst of all, he bullied me into dropping it, or so he thought. Two days later he received a letter from my lawyer demanding the invoices and a copy of his (compulsory) insurance certificate.

Backed into a corner he responded by sending the 'invoices' which my lawyer dismissed as 'works of fiction' and admitted to not possessing insurance. My lawyer informed me that he would report him to the authorities and then, mysteriously, declined to pursue him further.

And that was how the sad situation remained when I returned to England.

So I was not exactly pleased to see him that day. And the feeling was obviously reciprocated. As soon as he saw me he fled into the depths of the crowd. When we went to the village hall for wine and cakes the women sat at one end and the men the other, there was a definite division of the sexes and that is how it is always done in the village. Except on that day when The Cowboy's wife refused to join the women and committed a huge gaff by plonking herself down at the men's table. She was obviously also avoiding me. Not so their son, he appeared, grinned in a most conspiratorial way, kissed me warmly and then returned to his parents.

Remembering how The Cowboy bullied me, how he tried to intimidate me, how we both know that he was in the wrong and one (missing) lawyer's letter from being the subject of an investigation into his business affairs, I can only assume that he was scared stiff.

But it left me with a bad taste in my mouth. They were friends, or so I had assumed, and friends do not cheat you, do they? So seeing them that day made me question whether or not I wish to return to live in France, and until I can move on and forget I can't see how I can go back.

11/11/11

2011-11-15T06:04:00.008+01:00

This time the principle reason for my return had been to attend the Remembrance Day service in the village.

The villagers of Brittany suffered a great deal under the German occupation, young women were molested, homes were taken over, the crops that had been grown to feed families were stolen, farms were looted.

And on many occasions groups of young men were rounded up, marched to a crossroads and shot in retribution for the actions of the resistance. A bomb on the railways tracks in Guingamp, the sabotage of a truck, any sign of defiance led to the murder in cold blood of the village's young men.

And then, when the war was over and the Germans left, France entered into the Vietnam war and, hot on its heels a long and bloody war in Algeria.

For the French, fighting did not cease until the mid 1950's and the people of Brittany take Remembrance Day very seriously.

H. and I were in the village church by 10:45am. There were few other people present and I began to worry that the service would be poorly attended. B. the man from Alsace who retired from a career on French submarines to live, with his wife, in the village was rushing around in an uncharacteristic flap. He is the one who opens the church each morning, locks the doors at night and oversees its care all year round, he is, he once told me as he handed me a book in French on spirituality, more Buddhist than Catholic and he practices that which he preaches, kindness, charity and love for his fellow men.

As time passed with no sign of anyone else I fretted. I will miss the two minutes silence, I haven't missed the two minutes' silence for as long as I can remember, not missed bowing my head and shedding tears for the victims of war.

And then they came, those who had assembled by the mairie flooded into the church and filled it and the procession of old soldiers carrying flags and wreaths, M. le Maire looking uncomfortable as he always does in public, the commune's leaders followed and I thought, oh well, I missed the silence but there's still the service.

In the absence of a priest, B. presided. He read the service, one of the commune's former nuns stood at the lectern to recite a prayer and he stepped forward and gently lowered the microphone until her voice could be heard, the small choir sang, filling the church with music, we all said the Lord's Prayer, the dead were remembered, peace was prayed for, and then we left to walk to the memorial outside the mairie.

The maire beckoned us to come closer to hear his speech, provided by the French government for the occasion and delivered without, I have to say, emotion or passion. An occasion such as that demands a good orator but it is the elected maire who must speak, in France such things are not questioned, they are set out by the state.

And then it was the silence. To coincide with British time, I hadn't realised. Eleven o'clock on the eleventh day of the eleventh month of, this time, the eleventh year. I lowered my head and my thoughts were, as always, of those fresh-faced young men in their smart uniforms lying in the mud-filled trenches of France.

The flags were lowered, raised and lowered again, the wreaths were laid on the memorial, without open displays of emotion, with great dignity, the commune had honoured their dead.

And then those practical, down to earth people proceeded to the village hall to catch up with their friends and neighbours' news, to renew old acquaintances and to enjoy the wine and cakes provided by the commune. And we 'outsiders' who have been accepted into their midst with interest but without question, and become a part of their daily lives, went with them.

The FVH re-visited

2011-11-14T19:16:00.004+01:00

I am always anxious when I return to The FVH.

The ghosts have gone, well, mostly, one or two still linger and appear just when I least expect them and they upset me still, but mostly it is just me and my happier memories. But I worry about my house during my absences.

This time the sun was shining as I parked my car outside and walked into the courtyard. I noted the weeds that should not still be growing, the raspberries that I had cut right down a couple of months ago and that were now as tall again and bearing luscious red berries, the fallen leaves on the stones and the dust piled up against the door. I unlocked the door and walked in.

The smell of damp lingered but less strongly than before. Now it was mixed with the scents of the dried sage leaves that I'd left to ward off evil presences and the candle that I'd burnt to make it feel more homely.

In the kitchen I set about hanging a few pictures, the first of many with which I am planning to cover the walls. I hung the Green Man that I'd bought in Glastonbury as a house gift and swept up the flies that had died on the windowsill. I walked into the dining room where the coffee table that The Someone had made stood in front of the fireplace. I recalled the day that we'd gone to buy the wood, how he'd worked in the courtyard to make it, how before it was polished and waxed he'd fled in a fury for the last time. I considered burning it and then decided that no, I would keep it as a reminder not to be so weak in the future. I dragged it into the lounge and left it against a wall.

The fireplace was very damp. I need to have the wall examined and made more water-proof. It looked sad with the stove empty and no logs piled at its sides. I turned my back, walked the length of the room and lifted the lid on the piano. Having it re-tuned is another task on my Wish List but I am not musical enough to care that it sounded flat, I sat down and played a few songs before closing the lid, writing 'Mouse' in the dust and continuing my nervous walk-through of the house. All seemed ok, there was the remains of a trickle stain on The Ragazza's bedroom wall that worried me, dead flies everywhere and mouse droppings in the shower room and spare bedroom but it was fine. I dropped a few sachets of poison in the corners and closed the doors.

And then I locked up. I was feeling less anxious, anything can be fixed, the house was ok. I picked a bowl of the raspberries and as I was locking the gate three small children came running down the road and stopped. "Bonjour" the smallest boy said, and then asked me what was in the bowl I was holding. Raspberries I told him and held it lower so that he could see. The three of them skipped over and helped themselves to a few and then ran off to catch up with their mother who was waiting shyly further along the road. They left me smiling.

And then I drove back to my friends' house where we were joined for dinner by The Hippies. There was much drinking of wine and eating of lovely food (I made the desert) and then, exhausted and much more relaxed, I collapsed into bed feeling so grateful for the love of good friends and the continuing wonderful support of H. and P. my hosts.

Bienvenue a St Malo

2011-11-13T19:00:00.011+01:00

It was still dark when I awoke but I remembered that in France daylight comes later than in the UK so I leapt out of Papa Bear's bunk and into the shower. I always use the tiny bathroom in the dark because the lighting is not kind to an early-morning-night-onboard-a-ferry -face and I cannot stand the shock of seeing myself in the mirror. By the time I was dressed and in a fit state to face my fellow passengers it was 6:30am and I was ready for my croissant, Normandy butter and cup of tea.

Breakfast is complimentary for members of Le Club so I also popped a few tiny pots of jam onto my tray and staggered to a table. Sea-legs are not my thing, even when the ferry is at a standstill I stagger around like a drunken sailor on my wonky knees and swollen ankle.

By the time I made it on deck we were passing the little rocky islands and lighthouses that herald our arrival in St Malo.

The sky was clearing, the sun was rising and it looked as if it was going to be a lovely day. I breathe a sigh of relief, Brittany in a downpour is not welcoming.

I was lucky to have been given a cabin quite near the staircase to my car.

Those long, identical corridors are a nightmare and seem interminable. On wonky knees and wobbly sea-legs it is no fun to navigate them with one's luggage.

The ferry had been far from full and yet Brittany Ferries seem to have a policy of not offering cheaper last-minute tickets to club members.

This is a mistake, in my opinion, I would probably be tempted to travel on the spur of the moment if I could buy a half-price ticket. Perhaps it's best that they don't after all.

One skill that I have mastered recently is The Finding Of The Car. On past crossings I have often been witnessed running round and round the car deck in a state of rising panic.

The waiting to depart is always interminable.

And the off-loading of cars seems random and a little inefficient. Welcome to France....

Something strange happens whenever I drive off the ferry and into St Malo. My rusty French returns and I begin to think in that language, my confidence returns and I begin to feel more relaxed, my joie de vivre returns and I begin to feel happy. In short, I feel at home. This time, however, the anxiety remained with me.

I found my way out of St Malo without taking any wrong directions, without driving across the barrage over the Rance and without taking the scenic route through what seems like every village in northern Brittany. This time I simply followed the signs for Rennes and refused to be seduced by the too-early signs for St Brieuc and before I knew it I was on the main road heading for the N12.

French roads are a delight to drive upon. Well-maintained, well-sign posted, little traffic and, all along the way, beautiful villages and fields of contented cows, old granite churches and wooded slopes.

And before you could say 'sacre bleu' I was pulling into the road that leads to the village where, walking along, I spotted a familiar face.

I pulled over, K. jumped in and together we drove the rest of the way. When we pulled up outside H's house she peered into the car and announced "Hah, for a minute I thought that J. had brought another man!" My friend has a higher opinion of my attractiveness to the opposite sex than me.

I had arrived in time for the Thursday morning English conversation session that H. hosts for her neighbour/friend and whichever 'sympa' people care to call in....

A Night On The Ocean Wave...

2011-11-13T14:25:00.012+01:00

I'd become rather fond of the restaurant on the Bretagne, well, the buffet starter selection which always included poached salmon and langoustines, and had overcome my miserly tendencies sufficiently to swallow the 30 Euro + bill for dinner (see I do not get out often) so that I could enjoy my fishy first course.

On the previous visit, being late to dine, there were no langoustines left and no salmon in sight which explains why, on this crossing, I was one of the first to present myself at the restaurant. In fact, I think they were still loading cars as I arrived.

The maitre d' is a small, self-important man with moustaches, a little French version of Hercule Poirot, save for the footwear and tendency to solve murders. He it was who led me, exhausted and stressed and sorely in need of a confidence boost, to the table tucked in the furthest corner of the restaurant, out of sight and definitely out of mind. I felt rather slighted. I know I am a small and mousy woman of a certain age, but that does not excuse his dismissal of me as a client, does it?

I regret to say that I retaliated by pretending that he was a 'mere waiter' and trying to order a drink from him, which insult struck home as he informed me that I must await the attention of 'le serveur' and bustled off bristling with indignation.

Mouse 1 Poirot-Lookalike 1.

My 'serveur' was lovely. Tall, smiling and solicitous. As he delivered my pina colada with a flourish and wished me 'bon appetit' I felt a little less insignificant and much more loved. Things were looking up, I decided as I set off to net my salmon and langoustines...

Look closely.

Do you see any sign of salmon, anything like langoustines? Prawns yes, other fishy feasts no.

There was no salmon, no langoustines.

My heart was broken.

My main course was beef with a pepper and chocolate sauce (see the petit pot at the top).

It was nice, the mashed potatoes were delicious, the tomatoes tasty, the beef tender although too much for me to manage.

I declined desert.

I was full.

And still sulking (see salmon/langoustines)

My 'serveur' attempted to tempt me to just a little chocolate mousse, a sliver of gateau, perhaps creme brulee, I think he felt sorry for the mousy little woman sitting alone and unloved in the corner. I was adamant, I have eaten sufficient, I am satisfied, I told him in French and requested the bill.

At the desk Hercule Poirot was standing near the cashier, still dismissing me. I presented my cabin key which indicates that I am a member of 'le Club' and entitles to a discount on my dining and asked if service was included in the bill, even though I knew it was because the ferry is French and service is always 'compris' in France. And then I left a large tip for my 'serveur' because, as I explained, he had been gracious and kind and I appreciated that, despite having been given the worst table in the restaurant. I exited the restaurant and retired to my cabin to lick my wounds.

The earlier stress had left me drained so I decided to go to bed, and then began my Goldilocks Game. The cabin had four bunks. My chosen bunk is always the one on the right as you enter. Showered and nightie-clad I slipped under the duvet, lay my head on the pillow and felt a nasty juddering coming, I suspect, from the ship's engines. If I sleep in this bunk, I thought it will give me nightmares and I do not need any assistance in the nightmare department, thank you very much.

I rose and slipped into Mama Bear's bunk, alas the juddering was worse. So I climbed on it and swung off the upper bunk until it unfolded with a loud bang, positioned the little ladder against it and crawled up very carefully with my wonky knees feeling very wonky indeed, shuffled along the bunk and slipped under the duvet. There was no juddering to be felt in Baby Bear's bunk but it was, I realised as I peered over the slip of a rail, a long way up and if I turned over in the night there was a strong possibility that I would fall out and break a leg, or an arm, or even my neck.

So I shuffled back to the ladder and spent a while negotiating an edge of the bunk to the top of the ladder manoeuvre and then climbed down again. Left with no more Bear's bunks to try I was obliged to return to Papa Bear's bunk where, with the assistance of all four pillow as padding, and the now-customary sea-sickness pill that knocks a person out, I fell asleep.

Blogging from Brittany - 1

2011-11-11T22:10:00.005+01:00

A sense of unease had descended on my prior to my leaving for France. It began as I was sitting at my desk on Wednesday afternoon and a co-worker asked, innocently "What time is your ferry tonight?" and I replied "10.30, er no it's not its 8:15, crikey, 8:15!" Suddenly I thought of all that I still had to do, drive home to feed the cats and load the car, get changed, drive to Portsmouth, if I left work at 5pm as planned I would be cutting it fine. I held out until 3:45 and by then I was so agitated I left early.

It was late afternoon when I set out. The weather may be unseasonably mild, lulling us into thinking we're still enjoying September, but the early setting of the sun reminds us that winter really is round the corner, at 4:30pm the sun was sinking, by 5pm it was dark. I dislike driving in the dark, especially on busy roads unfamiliar to me, especially when I have a ferry to catch.

The drive was stressful. Lots of lorries, one minute lumbering up hills with such effort that I was obliged to overtake, and the next minute cruising down the other side with such velocity that they sped past me again, and so we played two-lane leap-frog for miles. Lots of commuter cars rushing home and impatient when they encountered my small French car doing the speed limit in the outside lane. Lots of delays at junctions as other motorists inched their way in causing bottle necks that brought the motorways to a standstill. An ambulance with lights flashing and siren sounding sped past and then, further down the road, I saw it on the other carriageway, attending the scene of an accident. And all the while the little voice in my head was saying "I don't think you can find your way in the dark, you are going to get lost and miss the ferry".

At 6:15pm I pulled into the ferry terminal, handed my passport and travel doc to the French woman in the booth, received my cabin key and parked behind the line of cars of a similar height and length. The little voice in my head was asking if I thought that my cats would be ok for four nights without me and suggesting that they would run away in my absence as I switched on the radio and settled down to listen to Radio 4.

During an interminably long wait of well-over one hour, there are numerous opportunities for a hesitant passenger simply to turn her car round, leave the queue, make her excuses and drive home. There are also numerous opportunities for the little voice in the head of the hesitant passenger to cause a minor attack of the vapours and by 7pm I had almost talked myself into a full-blown panic attack. Only almost though, as the real thing came perilously close to rendering me a gasping idiot a few minutes later when I was forced to stop on the steepest part of The Ramp From Hell.

I made it up the ramp, I always do but that does not stop me from driving towards it with all the fear of a man scaling Everest held fast by only the thinnest rope, so there was much revving of small engine and foot pressed so hard on accelerator and brake pedals I almost pushed them through the floor and so, gasping for breath, I made it onto the ferry, parked my car and reached The Point Of No Return, as the little voice in my head announced gleefully.

And so began the third visit home, with the car trapped between several others one deck below and me standing in the doorway to my cabin thinking "ah well, I'm here now, so far, so good".

going home...

2011-11-09T06:35:00.005+01:00

to my French home

When I was a child my parents used to set out for our holiday in Cornwall at 2am, to 'miss the traffic'. I smile when I think of that, there was little traffic in those days. Still we kids would go to bed as usual and in the middle of the night our parents would carry us, still sleeping, and lay us in the back of the old estate car and off they'd drive, into the dark.

It is rather disconcerting to wake, still in your PJs, outside Well's cathedral at 6am. This perhaps explains some of my more vivid dreams in which I am wandering , nightie-clad, along the streets of an unfamiliar town. Perhaps it also explains why I am fearful of still being in my nightie as the ferry approaches St Malo?

I am suffering pre-trip nerves...

But please take some time to read this post and view the video are you as angry as I am?

And now this post written by someone with opposing views but be warned, this man is in Climate Change Denial and may make you lose hope for our future

Hah, pre-trip nerves gone and I am fired-up again!

Cyber Security - Part 4, Spam

2011-11-08T21:13:00.003+01:00

We all receive it, the floods of e-mail offering us cheap Viagra, fake Rolex watches, online degrees, links to pornographic websites, the chance to help an American soldier remove $10,000,000 from Iraq. It is annoying, it is silly, we all ignore it, yes?

Actually, I do not receive much spam, at least not at home. Call me lucky, call me careful. The reason why I do not receive much spam is that I do not open any e-mails that come from people not known to me and so the spam-trail goes cold when it reaches me.

So we all know that the amazing offers that we receive in spam are a con.

Those cheap pills are as far from the genuine article as it is possible to be...

That Rolex probably won't arrive even if you do hand over your credit card details...

The degree in a day is not worth the paper it's printed on...

The porn site is probably infected with malware...

That soldier in Iraq to whom you have kindly given your bank details is really a thief...

Oh and poor little Ivana who just needs a few roubles to buy a wood stove for her old granny deep in the Tundra? Yes, you know, don't you?

Such spam is silly but people still fall for it and so it continues.

And then there is the spam that contains malware.

The favourite means of spreading malware at the moment is via spam that claims to come from UPS/Fedex. The message tells you that they tried to deliver a parcel and you were not at home. Please open the attachment to read the details. The attachment is a zipped file containing a banking Trojan. Trust me on this, banking Trojans are my thing.

Or else it's an e-mail that sparks your curiosity, the attachment contains a letter related to an inheritance/secret photos of you in your birthday suit/a tax rebate. Open that attachment and another banking Trojan installs itself on your computer and waits for you to do some online banking.

And then we have bank phishing e-mails. They claim to come from your bank, or even not your bank because you don't have an account with a bank in South Africa, but from A Bank. They tell you that:

1. Your account has been blocked

2. You are being investigated for illegal transactions

3. Someone just transferred a million pounds to your account

4. They need to verify your credentials

5. and so on and so on

They do not address you by name because they do not know you from Adam, but they do ask you to click on the link that says bank.com and to logon to your account. Behind that so-called link to your bank there is actually another link, to the Bad Guys. You click on the link and you see a screen that looks like your bank logon screen. It should, they've copied it. You enter your details and they collect them and rush to empty your account.

Recently the bank phishers have been using HTML attachments. Open the attachment and follow the logon instructions and guess where your banking credentials will end up? Russia? China? The USA? One thing of which you can be sure is that it won't be your bank.

If we do receive a bank phishing e-mails the sensible among us type our bank's website address into a new browser, go to our bank's genuine website and report the phishing e-mail so that the bank can make its customers aware of the latest fraud.

Spam is big business. The Bad Guys make millions from spam. They have the tools and tricks to churn it out in different forms every second. They use infected home computers to do the work for them, maybe your computer is a member of one of their botnets, certainly millions of innocent people are unwittingly helping them.

So, if you receive an e-mail from someone you don't know simply move it to your spam folder unopened. That will help your e-mail provider to thwart the Bad Guys. Again ,trust me on this, I spend a lot of my time fighting the spammers and we do render harmless and block more than you could ever imagine. But we do need you guys to be sensible and careful.

clean as a whistle

2011-11-08T08:07:00.003+01:00

The Ragazzo's favourite news website was not hosting anything nasty when I checked it yesterday. I examined the source code carefully, ran it through the systems, scanned it, it was as clean as a whistle. Either it had been infected and been cleaned up or his AV was giving him a dreaded false positive.

But a reminder that even the most respectable website can be infected and that you need a good AV to check them before you click on that link. The infections take several forms, briefly, there can be hidden iFrames that take you, unseen, to a different place where malware awaits you, malicious code that executes unseen, a Java script silently running.

Whatever their format they are all bad news.

Meanwhile, in case you missed it, I am going to France tomorrow!

you can run...

2011-11-06T20:24:00.003+01:00

Today was to be a day of chores and chutney.

Since I am going to France in three days, and knowing my tendency to leave everything to the last minute and so often remain awake and busy the entire night before a trip, and wishing to be organised and on top of it all for the first time in my life, I planned to stay out of computer malware and firmly in my tasks.

This morning I made banana chutney. I had followed a recipe that I found online, followed it to the last sultana, in my experience cooking is a cinch if you learn from tried and trusted recipe, use the best ingredients and do not miss any of the steps. No shortcuts in my short crusts.

The result was a brown sludge of unappetising appearance and a distinctly nasty chemical odour. I have the jar sitting on my bread bin and it is not a pretty sight. So I started again only this time I used intuition and my taste buds and ended up with two jars of rich, golden, glowing chutney. A banana chutney worthy of my friends in France.

Spurred on by success I baked a tray of shortbread, sugary and orangey and melt-in-the-mouth shortbread using a recipe from a cookbook that I acquired with a new fan oven some twenty years ago. I have around one hundred cookbooks and this old, stained, lost-its-cover-years-ago one never lets me down. Unlike the internet and its sludgy chutneys!

So that's the huge jar of mincemeat slowly maturing on its side to enable the brandy to seep through the fruit, nuts, suet and spices, mango chutney maturing nicely, banana chutney glowing with goodness and shortbread biscuits ready to go...

All that remains is a rich fruit cake to bake on Tuesday evening and some cupcakes. Unless I can think of anything else. Can you think of anything else that you would like to receive from a grateful house guest?

And I cleaned the inside of my car. That took a long time, it was messy and muddy and full of dog hairs and dried leaves and lavender petals from a bunch I'd hung on the mirror. And the kitchen because I am enthusiastic cook and make a grand mess. And my bedroom. And did some laundry and packed some boxes of things to take home to The FVH.

And then, just as I was congratulating myself on not having once thought about computer malware all day, the phone rang. It was The Ragazzo, my pride and boy. "Mama Bear" he shouted from the depths of some pub in London "I went to my home page on the computer and my AV told me it is infected with a virus. help, I don't like it, it's a good site, The New Statesman, don't know if you know it but it's left-wing and I love it"

I told him that I not only know The New Stateman but that in the good old days, a few centuries ago, I used to subscribe to it and received something known as a paper copy regularly through my letter box. "I knew you'd know it you radical hippy!" he declared "But can you do something about the virus?"

I told him that I had no intention deliberately of exposing either Pierre my PC, or Lily my laptop to a known malware infection, that I wouldn't even risk Proust my old, crusty, dusty French laptop but that I would investigate it tomorrow from the office, that I'd determine if it is infected, track down the malware and report it to the owners of the site.

He was impressed and pleased. I shall remind him of this the next time he tries to tell me how to programme my DVD player. And now, what do you think of coconut macaroons?

lest you think me a smart-alec

2011-11-06T08:35:00.004+01:00

Yesterday I popped to Argos to pick up a printer.

I had reserved it online earlier in the morning because The Ragazza thinks me a dud when it comes to shopping and I have to admit that being in a shop where there are no visible goods to buy feels a little surreal.

The leafing through a catalogue and the confusing pages of printers...

The writing of a code on a slip of paper...

The keying it in while standing at a screen...

The waiting on hard plastic chairs for my number to come up...

The taking possession of a box that looks the wrong shape/size from a kid at a counter...

It's all a little too much for me

I still remember the time when a customer walked into a shop, a helpful sales assistant clad in the store's uniform approached and asked "May I be of assistance?", when goods were brought to be viewed, touched, help up for inspection, when there was a walk to a till and money was passed from hand to hand, when the item purchased was wrapped and with a final "Thank you, do call again" the customer left the store.

These days one is lucky to spot an assistant and if one does they usually look like an angry adolescent who shuffles over and says "Yeah? You all right?" and once one has found the item to be purchased and then found an open till from which it can be purchased, there is the handing over of plastic, the keying in of numbers, the wait to have it be accepted or mysteriously declined, the "do you want a bag for that?" assumption that one is intent on destroying polar bears and tropical rainforests if one doesn't wish to walk round town with several pairs of unbagged knickers in one's hand, and then the final dismissal as the sales assistant turns to the person behind one while one scrabbles to collect purchases, plastic, bits of paper and leaves.

Is it little wonder so many people shop online?

Anyway, the printer.

My plan to turn up, give my reference number, pay with plastic, take my box and leave went awry because the reference number did not exist in the system. Neither did my name. Neither did my e-mail address. I suspect a conspiracy on the part of Argos because I had 'ticked the box' that says 'do not send me details of exciting offers/share my details with other companies/flood my inbox with advertising rubbish'.

So, since my online reservation had been lost in cyberspace I still had to endure the leafing through the catalogue, the writing down etc etc and when I passed the information to the young person (they only employ people under the age of 12 at Argos I think) she entered it into her computer and announced in triumph "you reserved it at 10:32 this morning!" I was tempted to say "No" just to burst her bubble but refrained because that would not have been true.

Long story cut short

I arrived home, unpacked the printer, followed the pictures that showed a pair of hands removing the plastic trips designed to hold it secure in an earthquake, the tricky act of removing the plastic cover from the plug, the sticking one end of plug into wall socket, the loose end into power adapter thingy and the other end of that into back of printer, the popping in of the two cartridges...

From the illuminated pop-up window I confirmed that I wished to be wireless, that I am English and, interestingly, European, popped the CD into Lily and waited while the software installed itself on my laptop (yes, using the admin account), ran the alignment part, popped in a piece of paper et voila, simples.

The printer is an HP.

I had hesitated because my old HP printer had to be hand-fed each single sheet of paper with all the care of one feeding a delicate baby its first solid food or else it grabbed a whole bunch at a time, chewed them reflectively for a few seconds, hiccuped and then announced 'paper jam'.

This 'feature' made the printing of a ten page uni assignment a nightmare and explains why I never wrote long essays. And no, it was not just my own printer that did this, someone I met in the cafe in Callac had the same printer and the same problem.

But I bought an HP anyway because it takes me a long time to become disillusioned and because I have an unrealistic belief in the goodness of people and printers and am forgiving by nature.

This printer has the paper feed at the top. I placed not one, not two but no less than seventeen sheets of paper in the feed and, feeling confident and on a roll, selected a picture from the folder called "Brittany" and clicked on 'print'. Before my very eyes the printer delicately took one sheet of paper, printed the picture (of trees at The Gorge), and politely slid it into the tray at the bottom. Perfect!

Flushed with success and feeling oh so techno-savvy, I left the house to walk the dog round the green and we returned to an interesting scene. The floor in front of the printer was covered with paper, not just plain paper, but prints of the first seventeen pictures in my folder called 'Brittany'. Had I loaded more paper into the printer it would probably have gone through my entire picture album and printed the lot.

Do not ask me how this happened.

I am obviously not so techno-savvy and smart as I had thought.

Still, I do have a lot of nice prints of picture of Brittany.

Cyber Security - Part 3, Viruses

2011-11-05T19:08:00.008+01:00

So, what is this malware from which we are all protecting ourselves?

(Please note that this is a simplified, reader-friendly version)

Viruses.

Viruses are the original malware, and folk frequently talk of 'computer viruses' when they mean other forms of malware. That which distinguishes viruses from the others is its means of transmission. Rather as a biological virus needs a host cell in which to replicate, so a computer virus needs a host file to do the same. Without the host file, the virus is helpless, useless, a mere scrap of code.

Once a virus has infected an innocent file on a computer it sets about spreading to as many others as it can find. This enables it to stand a better change of being run and so complete it's mission which is, of course criminal.

When it infects a host file a virus must make certain changes to the structure of the file in order to ensure that its code is executed when the file runs. Some viruses attach themselves to the start of the executable code, some to the end, some in the middle, others fragment themselves into various places. But they must all ensure that their code will be executed, that the host file will also run properly so as to avoid giving the game away and that they do not mess up during the infection process.

This is the simple version, if you wish to delve deeper check out resident and non-resident viruses. As with their biological counterparts, computer viruses frequently evolve in order to evade the 'immune system', in this case the AV software.

Viruses are a pain to remove. Trust me. Clean-up of a virus-infected computer requires that all files be checked for the presence of the virus, its code must be removed from the infected file and then the file must be restored to its pre-virus condition.

So how does a computer become infected by a virus? Simple, from an infected host. Sharing USB sticks, music and videos, opening an infected e-mail, Word document, PDF, by browsing to an infected website. The popularity of social media websites makes for an ideal breeding ground for viruses, it's a little like someone with the flu going to a party and sneezing.

In addition to the advice in the previous post you can further protect yourself by safe-surfing.

Do not open e-mails with attachments from people you do not know, even if the attachment appears to be a harmless picture, document, it is possible to disguise a virus.

Do not, in addition, always assume that an e-mail claiming to be from someone you know is actually from that person. E-mail accounts can be hacked and used to spread malware.

Do not be tempted to respond to invitations to view shocking/sexy/outrageous videos online.

Do not visit untrustworthy websites. Porn sites are often dirty in more ways than you think.

Do not fall for fake FaceBook invitations.

In other words act suspicious and be as prissy as your elderly maiden aunt.

Curiosity killed the cat, it can also kills your computer.

(pic of flu virus from Wikipedia)

Cyber Security - Part 2, Protection

2011-11-04T08:24:00.010+01:00

The basic steps all computer users should follow to protect themselves in cyberspace.

I'm giving the top four (er five) first due to time-constraints and so that you do not fall asleep halfway through reading this.

1. Enable a firewall on your computer. Firewalls are your first line of defence against incoming malware. The Bad Guys are constantly trying to access your computer in order to infect it. Your firewall should be capable of recognizing and blocking both known intruders and the content of the threat they are attempting, silently and unseen to you, to send. If you are interested and brave enough, look at your firewall logs and see just how many attempted incursions it blocks every hour.

Running without a firewall enabled is like going on holiday and leaving your front door wide open with a big sign in your front garden saying "Here Live Goons".

2. Use a good anti-virus package.Your AV should be capable of detecting the millions of new malwares that are released each day. It should also provide efficient and reliable removal of such malware if it is found on your computer.

It is also essential that it offers the added protection of 'run-time analysis'. This will give you a second line of defence should the malware slip past the AV undetected and start to execute on your computer. Good run-time analysis will flag any suspicious behaviour by the malware, such as writing to a system folder, trying to inject code where it shouldn't, interfering with your security settings, attempting to download other malware etc etc, and stop it in its tracks.

And it should not have too many fp's (false positives). The tale of the AV that mistakenly detected svchost.exe (a vital Windows component) as malware and deleted it, thereby rendering the affected computers incapable of being started, is still discussed in my office. In an odd twist of fate, that very same afternoon a sample that I was analyzing had called itself svchost.exe. Mine WAS malicious, I made sure of that.

Your AV should also incorporate website checks. Much malware is hidden on innocent websites, which we will discuss another day. A good AV will scan them for you and alert you should they be infected with something suspicious before you click on that link.

There are several AVs on the market and they all undergo third-party testing, the results of which can be viewed here. Make sure your AV is legitimate and trusted. Alas, FakeAVs, as in malware that pretends to be an AV in order to rob you, is currently the largest threat to the home computer user. We shall examine them in more detail later, if you like.

Make sure your AV updates regularly. These updates are the malware indentities written for the latest threats. And scan often, my AV scans my computer every time I switch it on and whenever I return to it after a break. That's rather extreme but better safe than infected.

And on a purely personal note, if your AV does find malware on your computer, it would be really nice if it gave it a name that indicates its type and intent and if you could go to their website and check out what it has done. Being told you have a 'Trojan' is nice, being told you have a 'Banking Trojan' and a description of what damage it has caused, is much more useful because the first thing you would do is call your bank, yes?

And 24/7 technical support is essential. I once contacted my then AV provider to tell them they had fp'd on an important and harmless executable. It was seven days before they replied to my e-mail and then only to say 'we have opened an incident and will respond in due course'

3. Security Updates. Make sure you always download and install the latest updates from Microsoft and any other trusted software that you have running on your computer. You should set up your computer to do this automatically for the MS updates (Control Panel, System Security, Windows Updates).

Nothing is perfect, no operating system is without bugs. Some of these bugs are flaws that the Bad Guys will use in order to infect your computer, you can help to protect yourself by installing MS updates automatically. Microsoft updates are sent out on 'Patch Tuesday' which is the second Tuesday of the month. Other updates will be released in between should they be of sufficient importance.

4. Limit user privileges on your computer. Microsoft helps you here by making you chose to login as user or as an administrator and applies the default setting accordingly so that the user account has fewer privileges and so is provided more protection than the administrator account.

If you select a user account the updates and upgrades sent out by your trusted software suppliers will not be installed automatically, neither will malware. If you need to allow folk such as iTunes, Java, Adobe, to install something on your computer you can easily login to the administrator account to do so and then log off again.

5. Passwords. Your passwords should be strong. Do not use the words secret, password, private. Do not use the name of your cat. Chose a long password composed of a mixture of letters, numbers and special characters, the Bad Guys have tools for generating passwords at the speed of light and so are capable of trying millions of combinations. If you play the lottery you will know that there are 14 million different combinations of six numbers, do the maths. yEt&$1f## would be ideal. Do not all rush out and use this! And no, of course this is not one of my passwords.

Do not use the same password for more than one purpose, spread the risk and make it more difficult for the Bad Guys by using different passwords for e-mail, FaceBook etc.

Do not store your passwords on your computer. Especially do not store them in a file called Password. Believe it or not a high-up employee of a large corporation did this and lo and behold, his employer's confidential database was hacked.

And change your passwords as often as you change your undies. Well, perhaps not that often but certainly regularly. It may be a pain but it is a sensible precaution. I change mine once a month, on the day that the dog and cats get their flea and tick and worm treatments.

Parasite-prevention comes in many forms.

So, that's the first portion of protection, was it helpful? Was it clear? Was there anything I didn't explain properly? If you have any questions please leave a comment...

And if the Bad Guys have now left you with a nasty taste in your mouth how about a nice trip into my other world, that of words... Enjoy!

Cyber Security - Part 1.

2011-11-03T21:25:00.006+01:00

Malware, short for malicious software, consists of programming (code, scripts, active content, and other software) designed to disrupt or deny operation, gather information that leads to loss of privacy or exploitation, gain unauthorized access to system resources, and other abusive behavior.

The expression is a general term used by computer professionals to mean a variety of forms of hostile, intrusive, or annoying software or program code. Software is considered to be malware based on the perceived intent of the creator rather than any particular features. (I disagree with this, explanation will follow in another post) Malware includes computer viruses, worms, trojan horses, spyware, dishonest adware, scareware, crimeware and other malicious and unwanted software or program.

(Wikipedia)

Malware comes in many forms. Aside from the standard executable code attached to the dodgy e-mail that we all know not to open, it can be HTMLs, JPEGs, PDFs, Word Documents, it can lurk unseen on a seemingly-innocent website, it can hide on a USB stick, it can be in a piece of music you download, a video you watch, that FaceBook link from 'a friend'. Anywhere your computer goes and anything you do in cyberspace will expose you to malware.

Contrary to popular opinion, the principle creators of malware are not spotty adolescents in grubby bedrooms. While they may be responsible for some of the malware out there, in cyberspace the real threat comes from organised gangs of criminals. Malware is big business. It earns millions of pounds/dollars/whatever currency, for the Bad Guys.

And if you really want to be scared, the current estimates for the number of new malwares released to infect the internet each day is 10, 000,000. Give or take a few.

coming up... the steps you should take to protect yourself

Meanwhile, I am off to make aubergine chutney. Sometimes I look at my life and I have to chuckle, from malware to mincemeat, from worms to walking the dog, from trojan horses to patting ponies, kind of crazy, n'est-ce pas?

in the kitchen...

2011-11-02T07:59:00.002+01:00

I am going to be busy for the next few days...

When I am not at work I will be in the kitchen. I am making shortbread biscuits, mango chutney, Christmas puddings, jars of mincemeat, a fruit cake and any other edible goodies that I can think of to take with me to France next week.

Little gifts for my wonderful hosts.

The two people who have made my return to the village a delight, who have welcomed me into their home each time I have talked of going back, who have been supportive when I have been overcome with nerves, who have hugged me when the bad memories and the sadness returned and I collapsed in tears.

In short, the very good friends who have enabled me to take that first, huge step to make my house in France my home once more. I owe them a great deal.

battling the baddies..

2011-11-01T08:37:00.007+01:00

London is today hosting a conference on cyber security...

This is a subject close to my heart.

"The threats from cyberspace are growing increasingly complex and sophisticated. They range from cybercriminals seeking to steal credit cards to groups of hackers seeking to cause trouble. Equally, it can involve states seeking to steal secrets or even carry out attacks, as happened on Iran's nuclear programme with the Stuxnet virus. The overlap between these groups - with states sometimes subcontracting work out to criminal networks - only increases the problems of working out who is behind any attack. Governments have been struggling to keep pace with what is taking place and London is playing host to a major conference on the subject starting Tuesday with delegates invited from around the world Part of the aim of the meeting is to seek ways of making cyberspace more secure

BBC Security Correspondent Gordon Corera

Walking the dog around the green I met a man with a dog, an intelligent man, a cyber-savvy man, who admitted to me that he has no anti-virus software installed on his computer. When I asked him why not he told me "I don't do internet banking or shop online so I don't think it's a problem". Well, I told him as politely as I could, it may not be a problem for you but it is certainly a problem for other people whose computers could be under attack from yours which is, probably, now part of a botnet. He stared at me blankly, he did not understand.

After we had collected our dogs and parted company I wondered how many other people are aware of the risks inherent in the internet? How many people understand all that lurks out there in the seemingly infinite expanse of cyberspace? How many people are blissfully unaware?

So, now that I have come out of the closet, as it were, and it is obvious that I work as an internet threat analyst, I wonder if it's time to start enlightening those who drop by here about the murky world of cyber baddies. Would it be useful to have a few posts on the subject, in terms that people understand, none of the geek-babble and pseudo-scientific stuff that makes us all switch off, but a concise and, hopefully, clear explanation of the risks to which all users of the internet are subjected every time they switch on a computer?

If you think it would be interesting and helpful, please let me know...

moments of clarity...

2011-10-31T04:47:00.009+01:00

I arrived at work yesterday at precisely 8am, as promised, expecting a quiet and gentle start to my Sunday. Walking through the near-empty building, past the security guard, through several of those barriers where one is obliged to swipe one's ID card and enter a code, into a lift that took me to the first floor, through another security door, past the gaggle of support guys chatting about their Saturday night, pausing to make a cup of tea before, finally, reaching the door to our inner-sanctum, the closed and barred-to-all-but-us, analysts' office, and took a deep breath.

I remember my first few months there. How complex and confusing it all seemed. How I wondered precisely what kind of world I had entered. How I was sure that I would never, ever, get to grips with it all even if I lived to be two hundred and twenty. How long it took me to forget all that I'd learned about efficient and logical code and enter the mindset of the cyber-criminal.

I am different to most of my colleagues. They focus their attention on the code, they spend evenings playing with disassemblers and computer games, they think like the hackers and the thieves. Me, I look at the code on the screen in front of me and I see victims, I see people sitting helpless at home as their identities are stolen, their bank accounts drained, their lives made stressful by the faceless, far-away people intent on making a dishonest living from them. To my colleagues our work is almost like a game, to me it is victim-support.

When I walked into the office yesterday, and logged in to the systems, I was expecting a quiet morning. I had planned to spend some time finishing the proof-reading and re-writing of a paper that someone is due to deliver in the next few weeks. I am, in addition to being The Office Babel-Fish, called-upon to translate e-mails from one of the five foreign languages that I know, also The English Teacher, called-upon to correct my colleagues' writings.

Yesterday I walked into a full-blown spam outbreak that colleagues in another time-zone were busy thwarting and, because this is my speciality, my area of expertise and since I am conscientious and they were at the end of their day, I took over, wished them a pleasant evening, pushed the papers to one side and set about the most pressing task. By the time my co-worker had arrived ninety minutes later, the flood had been stemmed, I had chased the culprits in cyberspace, dismantled their weapons and was on the trail of another gang.

And that was how I spent my Sunday. Fighting spam, analysing and detecting Trojans, unravelling the complexity of criminal code. It was, I thought as I left at the end of the day, not at all how I had expected to be spending my Sundays five years ago when I moved to France. It was the total opposite of how I had expected my life to become but it was good.

While I was sitting at home with a glass of cheap, fizzy white wine made pink by the addition of some cassis, the phone rang. Twice, because the first call failed. It was a friend in France, actually the woman who I have come to recognize as my best friend in France, with news from the commune. The Cowboy and his spouse have been employed by a college in a nearby town to teach English to teenagers. If I tell you that neither are qualified to do so, that neither are suitable people to do so and that neither of them are sufficiently skilled in English to do so, you'll feel as outraged as I do? If I tell you that I have spent the last few years studying university courses in French and English, that that I have read endless TEFL books, that I have passed exams and acquired skills in this field, and that that was my plan when I moved to France, then you'll understand how I felt.

Perhaps it is juvenile of me but I felt cheated, yet again, by The Cowboy.

I sat back and sipped my drink and wondered at how my life has unfolded. Several times during the last few years I have talked about The Universe and how it seems to have an odd set of plans for me. Several times I have surrendered to its randomness and, at times, its evil sense of humour. Several times I have bemoaned my fate.

Yesterday evening I realised that The Universe, that all-powerful force that I had been allowing to push me from my path, exists only in my mind. That each and every decision that I have made, each and every step that I have taken, each and every move forward and retreat back, has been mine and mine alone. That I have been in control of my life all along.

There have been times when I have made good decisions. There have been times when I have made bad mistakes. But all the time it was me alone who made them.

And so, knowing now that which I am capable of achieving, and today showed just how much I can achieve when I stop worrying and start working, and knowing that I am, if you'll excuse my vanity, a hundred times better than The Cowboy and his spouse, it's up to me alone to make happen the things that I want in my life.

I love my work. I love its complexity, its constantly-changing-keeping-me-on-my-toes nature. I l love thwarting the Bad Guys. I love helping The Innocent. I also love my languages, I love learning grammar and extending my vocabulary, I love being able to teach others. And I love my books, both the books that I read and the one that I am writing.

This is who I am. A mature (read middle-aged) woman with decades of IT experience, a gift for linguistics and the enthusiasm and ability

to weave the two worlds together to make them my own. And now that I know that a semi-literate, unqualified and unworthy little cheat and his wife can fool the French authorities into employing them to teach their children, then I see no reason why I shouldn't be able to convince my employer to let me work remotely from France and, in my spare time, be happily engaged in passing on my love of languages to others.

And now, it is 5am and I have to prepare for an early start at work. I still have that technical paper to proof-read before I begin this week's task of teaching another new colleague the tricks of the trade.

GMT/BST

2011-10-30T07:15:00.009+01:00

I used to quite like it when the clocks went back, or rather when we put the clocks back, saying they 'went back' makes it sound like they did it did their own free will which is not the case in my house, or car for that matter. I suppose now that half of our time is kept electronically it's not such a big issue, this knowing the time, electronic clocks go back automatically. So I used to quite like it because it meant an extra hour on Sunday and, Sunday being special in my world that could only be called 'a good thing'.

Sundays are no longer different to any other weekend day in the UK now. The shops are open, albeit only from 10 am- 4pm. The roads are busy, albeit only after the usual weekday rush hour has passed. And some of us must go to work, albeit for double pay. On such a Sunday I do long to be back in France where life still slows down on Sunday.

I'd volunteered (See I Am A Constant Volunteer) to be in at 8am to take over from my colleagues in Australia and my co-worker will wander in later and remain until it's morning in Canada leaving me free to depart at 4:30 to enjoy what remains of my Sunday.

Which means that I've barely slept a wink and spent the night leaping out of bed to check the time and then, being unsure that it was the right time, switching on the laptop to double-check, before going back to bed to dream some weird dreams indeed. One of which involved me having to feed and dress a hundred nappy-clad, chubby babies before work. Figure THAT one out Mr Freud if you can.

You know, there are days, many of them in fact, when I think back to my mother and what her life was like when she was the age that I am now. My mother was a grandmother, she was living with my father in his early retirement, she was grey-haired, she was old.

And here I am, at the same age, preparing to go into an ultra-high tech office and do battle with cyber criminals in places like Russia and Brazil. Is it any wonder that I have weird dreams? Is it any wonder I sometimes feel as if the clocks are playing tricks on me?

I know that the 50's are the new 40's, that we've somehow managed to delay the speed of our own slide into old age, that we're all living longer and so must work until we're 70, but there are days, such as today when the clocks have gone back and I am confused, when I think my mother had it much, much easier.

And then I think of my life and all the things that I've done that she never could.

The careers, the skiing trips, the learning of languages, the buying a home in France. And then working on a Sunday doesn't seem so bad after all.

(pic pinched from the BBC website, note the cute mouse!)

heart v head

2011-10-29T12:00:00.007+02:00

I was sitting in my chair with Julian Barnes, or rather his prize-winning book, on my lap, when there was a polite knock on the door.

The dog leapt off the sofa and began to bark excitedly. We don't receive many visitors here and so he greets those who do call with all of the excited enthusiasm of a lost lone-explorer encountering Dr Livingstone in the bush.

I pulled back the curtain and there stood a woman bearing a box of paper poppies.

Fortunately the times when the money ran out before the month seem to be behind me, at least at the moment, so I was able to find some cash for her collecting tin. Not as much as I would have liked to have donated but there's still time to stuff a note in another tin, I thought, as we stood talking about the horrors of the First World War.

After I'd closed the door I stuck my poppy in the hole at the top of my French calendar and then a question that had been playing on my mind resolved itself.

After my last visit I had booked another trip home for next month, to coincide with Remembrance Day. It being 11/11/11 and a memorable date, I had felt that it should be commemorated in France where folk take such things much more seriously than they seem to in the UK. I had wanted to be back in the commune and present, albeit tearful, for the procession with wreaths and the speech by the mayor and the lowering of the flags and the drink afterwards in the village hall.

And then financial fears and the state of my bank balance had made me reconsider and I wondered whether to cancel the crossing that I'd booked and the two days time off in lieu that I'd requested and stay put.

The arrival of the lady with the poppies made up my mind.

I will be aboard the evening sailing on 10/11 and arrive in France at 8:30 am on the 11th. That should give me enough time, even allowing for my apparent inability to find my way out of St Malo, to reach the village by 11am. I will attend the service and then head off to La Plage Bonaparte where I plan to lay a small bunch of flowers on the pebbles.

There are times when the heart must overrule the head

N'est-ce pas?

feeling the fear...

2011-10-28T07:12:00.002+02:00

Admitting to one's fears is tough.

Facing those fears is even tougher.

I am afraid of heights.

No, I'll qualify that...

I am afraid of ascending to any height greater than my own X 2, which number I arrived at whilst attempting to climb a fir tree to rescue a kitten. 5'2 was fine, 10'4 was ok, and then I froze and would have still been up that tree to this day, had not the kitten needed me.

Once I'm up I love being high. I adore the views, I revel in the achievement, I feel very brave. I love the coming down again. But the getting there terrifies me.

I am also afraid of confined spaces.

As a child I used to force myself to crawl under the bedclothes head-first to the bottom of my bed, for what reason I have no idea because I was terrified, but I often tried to do it.

Since then there have been numerous occasions during which I have flatly refused to enter tunnels, mines, caves, the bottom of my bed head-first.

Put the two together, ascending to a great height and then a confined space..

The Rags still recount the tale of Maman's Baptism Of Fire Adventure.

It took place in Italy, in Tuscany to be precise, during a holiday in the mountains north of Pisa. We'd heard of a cave called La Grotta del Vento and thought it would make for an interesting excursion because the stalactites were, we read, amazing. What we didn't know was that the road to the cave was steep, narrow and very, very high.

As we drove towards the cave, through green valleys and alongside a beautiful river, I was feeling apprehensive enough, but as the road narrowed and began to climb and we passed a car driven by a German who had just turned round since he'd obviously thought better of it, I began to feel that fear.

"Per chi volesse fare strade di montagna, a volte strette e tortuose..."

The road continued to narrow until it was a single car's width, the incline was 1:3, hairpin bends appeared in front of us and to the left was a sheer drop into a gorge. We inched forward and upward with The Rags suddenly silent and me gripping the steering-wheel and shaking with fear. I wanted to turn round and go back but the road was too narrow for such a manoeuvre, the only was was up and up, and up.

It was the most terrifying drive of my life and I have no idea how I did it.

When we finally reached the cave I had to rush into the ladies' loo to be violently ill and I was in such a state of shock that a guided tour of the vast cave system was as a walk in the park and I managed, not only to make myself follow The Rags into the depths of the mountain but also to remain with the rest of the group throughout the long visit. The cave was as amazing as we'd read, it was absolutely stunning, almost worth the fear of that drive, almost but not quite, I'd only do that drive again to save the life of another person.

And I am afraid of dentists.

Well, not dentists as such, but of having dental work done. Since the burn-out in fact when I developed a phobia connected to my teeth and hair that still lurks in the recesses of my mind because it is tied to that terrible time at The Beast.

Recently I'd been in a lot of pain and finally found the courage to visit a dentist who decided that I needed a root canal filling on a molar, except that when she took an x-ray she discovered an infection which meant I had to go away and take antibiotics before she could do the work. So far, so good, although my courage was running low after the first visit and the prospect of a second was daunting, and when I returned and she removed the filling she discovered an abscess which meant I had to go away again with more antibiotics before she could do the work. So far, less good, except that when I returned again said abscess had not gone, which meant that I had to go away yet again and take yet more antibiotics....

Yesterday I returned, again, for the root canal work. My dentist removed the temporary filling and discovered, yes, the infection lingers. This time, probably sensing that I would not return again, she pumped me full of anaesthetic and did the root canal work and then applied a dressing and another temporary filling and told me to return one more time.

My dentist is very good at calming nervous patients. She constantly checked that I was ok, she repeatedly reassured me that all would be well, she was gentle and considerate. But I still had a minor panic attack half-way through the session and, when I finally stood up to leave, my legs buckled under me. It was a real ordeal.

So, did I say that I would never drive to La Grotta del Vento again, unless to save a life? I take it all back, I would happily drive there again to avoid returning to the dentist.

and then there are the others...

2011-10-26T18:58:00.005+02:00

and then there are The Others...

The Dunning–Kruger effect is a cognitive bias in which unskilled people make poor decisions and reach erroneous conclusions, but their incompetence denies them the metacognitive ability to recognize their mistakes. The unskilled therefore suffer from illusory superiority, rating their ability as above average, much higher than it actually is, while the highly skilled underrate their own abilities, suffering from illusory inferiority. Actual competence may weaken self-confidence, as competent individuals may falsely assume that others have an equivalent understanding. As Kruger and Dunning conclude, "the miscalibration of the incompetent stems from an error about the self, whereas the miscalibration of the highly competent stems from an error about others". The effect is about paradoxical defects in cognitive ability, both in oneself and as one compares oneself to others. (Wikipedia)

We all know such people, don't we?

I once participated in an interview panel for a new salesman. The candidate was, to all appearances, impressive. He spoke endlessly about his skills in selling, yes he could have 'sold snow to an Eskimo', he talked about his in-depth knowledge of computers, he recounted his past successes. We were taken in, he had sold himself to us.

He joined the company and within days I was receiving large numbers of e-mails from him asking me the most basic questions about computers. This was unusual, sales people only contacted me when they had a large deal pending and wished me to devote large proportions of my time to helping them to win it. The rest of the time I did not feature on their radars.

I thought that he was testing my abilities. I took the time to reply, to answer his questions, but when he'd sent his thirtieth e-mail I began to grow suspicious. I voiced my concerns to my then-manager who told me to keep replying, that he was a good salesman, worth his large salary and benefits, and so I continued to play the game.

I can't remember how long he lasted. I think it was less than eight weeks and then he moved on to another, better opportunity with another company. He was completely incapable, incompetent, but he considered himself wasted on us.

Sales people, in particular, seem to suffer from the Dunning-Kruger effect. I've seen many join a company, enjoy large salaries and perks, much fame and privilege and then leave within months because they couldn't deliver on their promises. And yet we still continue to employ them, to waste our time training them, to dance to the tune of their loudly-blown own trumpets.

Most of the time we sit back and watch such people in amazement.

We all know that they're incompetent, we all know that they don't deserve their salaries/bonuses/perks, we all feel that it is unfair, morale suffers, business suffers, they prosper

If we're very unfortunate we find ourselves working for a manager such as this and life can become very difficult. They will shout down anyone who disagrees with them because they know best. They will introduce new practices, set new targets, demand new methods of doing the job that are totally unrealistic and unworkable and then they will blame us for their failings before moving on to fresh fields.

It must be very tempting for a business to employ them because they look so good on paper and they 'talk the talk' so convincingly but I venture to suggest that anyone who looks too good to be true on their CV probably is just that.

and now on a less frivolous note...

2011-10-25T19:09:00.002+02:00

As I was driving to work this morning I heard a radio programme that made me stop and think hard. It was an interview with a female physicist, a Dame Somebody, the one who discovered pulsars and did not receive the Nobel Prize for her efforts, it having been awarded to her boss and another male colleague instead.

Of course she was interesting but it was something she said that struck me, she described The Imposter Syndrome "Despite external evidence of their competence, those with the syndrome remain convinced that they are frauds and do not deserve the success they have achieved. Proof of success is dismissed as luck, timing, or as a result of deceiving others into thinking they are more intelligent and competent than they believe themselves to be." (Wikipedia)

Hands up all of you who really do think that you are frauds? My own hand is up high.

I have always felt like a fraud and terrified that I would be found out and sent packing. In every single job that I have done with, perhaps the exception of when I was a veterinary assistant which work I did do very well indeed, in every other job I have felt like a fraud waiting to be discovered. It has been hellish at times, especially when given complete control of several million pounds worth of mainframe computer and left alone to rip out its soft heart (operating system), or when I was asking people in a major bank to trust me and to apply fixes to their production systems solely on the basis of my 'expertise'. Have you any idea how many tens of thousands of pounds are lost for every ten minutes that a mainframe computer is 'down'? And there was that multi-million pound lawsuit between a bank and a large computer company on the basis of a report I wrote. It's little wonder that I suffer anxiety attacks, is it?

I did it because that was the only way I'd get to play with those mainframe computers, and I had fun with them, and it worked out ok. I can't recall any major mess-ups, nothing I did caused a disaster, but I always felt like an incompetent idiot.

When I burnt out and fled to France the relief was enormous. I told myself that I'd got away with it and that no mainframe computers had been harmed in the course of my career. That I'd fooled a great many people for a great many years. Lucky, lucky incompetent me!

So what did I do two short years later?

I took a job in a totally new and so complex field that at first I thought everyone around me was speaking a foreign language that I had never heard before. At the age of 52. And for three years I have been waiting to be found out. Some days I feel almost-competent because I sit back and view the fruits of my labours and they're ok, but then I'll have a day when it all seems too much for me to cope with and I sit at my desk and wonder how much longer before The Moment Of Truth and my unmasking as a fraud.

I have accepted now that I will never feel completely competent.

And I don't know if there is a cure for this condition.

Or are we all condemned to continue feeling like frauds?

Gucci Gucci Goo

2011-10-24T19:37:00.006+02:00

Despite Val's views to the contrary I am not a girlie-type.

I'm a tree-hugging, now that I can no longer climb them (at least not at the moment!), pony-loving, scratched-kneed, 55 year old tomboy.

I may wear long, floaty skirts but only because they're more comfy than jeans...
I may have long, flowing locks, but only because I won't waste money on haircuts...
I may wear ballet pumps, but only because they're better for my wonky knees...

I do not paint my face although I do line my eyes with kohl. My eyes are my best feature and I like to distract attention from the rest of me. I do not use expensive face creams, powder and paint or perfume. I do not read gossip mags, I am not impressed by celebs, I do not follow fashion.

But once in a while...
I once went to the opera wearing ludicrously high heels, a pink satin skirt and a tight sheer top. I once went to a Van Morrison concert wearing a very sexy blue outfit and danced when he sang "Brown-Eyed Girl". I once went to a dinner party almost wearing a long, silver dress.

After a week at work in which I felt particularly dumb and hopeless I needed a confidence boost and so today I took my thirty-year old Gucci handbag to work instead of my usual old brown bag, because it reminds me of the days, decade ago now, when I drove a flash company car and had an expense account and traveled around Europe and the Middle East doing impressive things to expensive mainframe computers. It reminds me of the days when I was considered 'smart and successful' and not at all a mouse.

The effect was interesting.
I was complimented on my 'Classic Gucci'.
Someone held a door open for me.
People noticed my accessory.
They would, of course, it would cost £625 to buy new today! Crikey, I could get the chimney r-pointed for not much more than the cost of a handbag. No prizes for guessing which I'd rather have now.

Did it do my confidence any good?
No, of course not.

But it was quite nice all the same, just for a change, to be reminded of the days when I was confident and had such fripperies, before going back to my jars of homemade mango chutney and mincemeat and being a mouse.

homemade...

2011-10-23T10:38:00.004+02:00

It is evident that the recession has made many people think of ways in which to become self-sufficient, if not to turn their backs on the big corporations whose greed, lack of customer care and obscenely strong presence in our lives is causing us much concern, then to prove that we are capable of caring for our own needs. So reassuring when the world seems to have gone crazy, isn't it?

My recent Glastonbury Girl is a perfect example of someone who makes much of what she needs and a lot of what she wants, and she was the inspiration for me to begin to look at ways in which I can follow her lead. The flavour of her homemade blackberry jam on my breakfast toast was a delicious taste of the fruits of her labours, alas too late for me to harvest my own.

I suppose that I was ripe for conversion. I have recently been heard to mutter "£1 for a shortbread biscuit, I can make a dozen for less!" and ""£1.65 for a cupcake, I can make a dozen for less!" and £2 for a pot of organic vegetable soup" rather repetitious but you get my point.

Last weekend I baked the shortbread biscuits and not only were they a fraction of the cost, they were also delicious and tailored to my taste by being flavoured with finely grated citrus peel, autumn being the time of year when I long for oranges and lemons.

Yesterday I made the soup with sweet potatoes and a portion of the butternut squash given to my by my friend H in France. The cost was negligible, the taste was divine, I rest my case.

Now I have plans to make many of The Rags Christmas presents, I have recipes for bath bombs and chocolates and knitting patterns for gloves and scarves and more ideas arrive all the time.

If I hadn't left my Amazon parcel full of preserving jars at work I'd have been happily engaged in making chutneys, mincemeat and pickles today...

Val told me that she makes soap, it sounded so simple and low-cost that I've added that to the Wish List too and then today, while idly browsing in cyberspace, I found a post that describes how to make chemical-free deodorant here at Smashed Peas and Carrots.

If I am to run a home-from home B&B in Brittany one day then organic, home made toiletries would be a lovely gift for guests, don 't you think?

If anyone has any other homemade ideas to share I'd love to hear from you

Back to basics, back to our roots...

Swimming reindeer...

2011-10-22T10:46:00.009+02:00

Do you recall that recent visit to the dentist?

The infection turned out, once the filling had been removed, to be an ulcer, and an impressive one at that. Which meant that the root canal filling had to wait while the it was treated with more antibiotics and a special dressing.

Today I return for the root canal work.

The dentist is lovely, calming and careful with me, and she's Portuguese so I get to practice my rusty skills in that language, so handy for tackling Brazilian bank Trojans of which there are many, I must hold a record for knowing the word 'password' in so many languages by now. But I will take Ivy the iPod so that I can distract myself with my podcasts of that radio series while she drills and excavates and fills my molar. Hence the Swimming Reindeer title for this post.

You know by now my views on opening up the mind and the imagination to many fields outside my small world. This is why I watch programmes about quantum physics and read book on the prehistoric world and maths and anthropology, and why I am about to embark on German as a fourth/fifth language.

The recent visit to Glastonbury proved a point.

When I returned I was exhausted but enervated and positively buzzing with the experience.

I felt as if my sense had been reawakened and I had been given an injection of joie de vivre.

That's how I raised The Rags, exposing them to as much of the world as I could, teaching them, guiding them, taking them on adventures, and I can't help thinking that's how we should treat all children. Wouldn't it make for an exciting world if schools were where they went to be enervated and enlightened instead of being forced to march in step and to perform well in annual exams? Imagine the people we'd produce for the future!

Anyway, a rambling post but I hope you get the drift.

Something new is something wonderful.

And I plan to learn/study/create/visit/explore something new each weekend so after the dentist I'll be making chutney and cakes as I recover from the ordeal. And reading the copy of the latest Mann Brooker prize winner that I just bought (isn't Julian Barnes a good looking man?) And polishing off a chapter of The Book.

A weekend of walks and reading and writing and time in the kitchen is just what I need.

Girls In Glastonbury - Part Two

2011-10-17T18:51:00.024+02:00

There is a TV series running at the moment called Three In A Bed.

It's a competition between the owners of three B&B's in which they visit each other's establishments, stay overnight and then rate them for value for money, cleanliness etc. Being keen to run The FVH as a B&B in the future, and since Val plans to start her own B&B business next year, we were both in Three In A Bed mode when we stayed in Glastonbury

We didn't like the shower, which had an annoying squirt from one side that hit me in the eye just when I was least expecting an eye-wash. The internet cable was nowhere to be found. The windows did not open and since the radiators were on full it was very hot. The backs of the furniture was a little grubby, discovered, I should add, while hunting for that darned internet cable.

But, the beds were very comfy and the pillows plump and the breakfast, Val's continental and my full English, were delicious. We decided that a B&B should provide a good bed and a good breakfast and since we'd had both we were happy. But charging £110+ for a room seems to be to be a lot of money, I was thinking £50 for mine...

Added to which Val made me a cup of tea and delivered it to me as I sat in bed meditating on the holly bushes outside my window which extra service was the cherry on the cake for me. The sad downside of living alone is that no-one brings me a cup of tea in bed and so it was a treat.

So, fortified and feeling happy, we set out to explore the shops. Well, once I'd spent a good ten minutes reversing my French car out of the tiny drive!

Glastonbury is a very spiritual place, built on the junction of Ley Lines.

Ley lines are alleged alignments of a number of places of geographical and historical interest, such as ancient monuments, megaliths, natural ridge-tops and water-fords. Their existence was suggested in 1921 by the amateur archaeologist Alfred_Watkins. Watkins said that these alignments were created for ease of overland trekking by line of sight navigation during neolithic times and had persisted in the landscape over millennia. In more recent times, the term ley lines has come to be associated with spiritual and mystical theories about land forms, including Chinese Feng_shui. (Wikipedia)

Well, you know me and my love of menhirs, megaliths and all things neolithic, Glastonbury is a perfect place for me to relax, unwind and be inspired.

There was a time when the foundations of my marriage were crumbling that The Ex screamed at me "If you aren't careful you'll end up growing peppers and beans in a hippy commune!" and I thought "What a lovely suggestion, let me go find my flounciest skirt and trowel". I'd do it now if I could find a commune in France that would take me!

Would you like another dragon?

Here's one that sits in a little courtyard.

I love him. I would like to have someone clever make one for me and I would place it in the courtyard at The FVH where it would scare away The Cowboy and other assorted nasty people.

Interestingly, the Chinese name for Ley Lines is Dragon lines.

The shop window of a Buddhist meditation centre.

I like the Star of David with the Christian cross in the centre. A good religion should embrace the adherents of all faiths and welcome their followers.

It should celebrate spirituality rather than scriptures and doctrines, don't you think?

Yin Yang.

A great many people of my acquaintance have their yin and yang all out of kilter. Aggressive males, feeble females, strident females, overly sentimental males, they could use a little yin/yang balancing, in my opinion.

In fact, the world would probably a better place if our male leaders had more yin and our down-trodden women more yang. And the rest just behaved better...

Controversial but true?

Interestingly Val thinks me girlie which makes me smile because I am an old tomboy, but then in one shop she admired the work-a-day boots while I drolled over some ballet pumps. so perhaps she has a point.

The clothes in here were lovely. If I were tall and willowy I would braid my long hair and wander round wearing these clothes and velvet capes and then The Ex would smile knowingly and say "I told you so, old hippy"

The courtyard where live dragons...

We had a drink here, sitting on one of those wooden benches with the scent of incense wafting around us. There are a great many shops selling incense in Glastonbury and it hangs in the air mingling with the smoke from 'illegal substances'.

I bought some for the wooden dragon incense burner that I bought during my first post-divorce-pronouncement holiday to Brittany with the Rags. Funny how everything makes sense all of a sudden!

Do you remember the chapel at my friend in Brittany's house. I told you about it in The Man Who Makes Roses.

Well, the walls in the little entrance to the courtyard reminded me of that chapel. Another example of things suddenly making sense as the larger picture of my life reveals itself to me.

The morning that I spent with the man who makes roses was the same day during which I received a phone call inviting me to return to England to start a new career.

There have been many times when I deeply regretted having said Yes but now I can look back and see my footprints along that difficult path and see how they faltered, how I paused thinking I was lost, and how they finally led me to here and now.

I thought that I had wandered from my true path but now I can see that I walk a labrynthe and that I must take many wrong turns, retrace my steps and keep my faith before my path finally reaches its end. And that is perfect!

A beautiful wooden door.

Val and I both stopped to admire it and to agree that people live in houses that are composed of too many straight lines, sharp corners and unnatural angles. There should be more flowing, organic shapes, like this door.

We would, we concluded, be happy in hobbit houses.

Halloween approaches.

I have done the ghost parties for The Rags, complete with pumpkins and party food and a ceiling covered in black paper studded with silver stars that I cut from tin foil.

I did one in France when The Hippies arrived dressed as a witch and a wizard and looked spookily like the real thing.

Now I intend to celebrate Samhain henceforth....

And I think I will place flowers on the graves of the babies in the local churchyard on All Saint's Day.

I could have spent several months' salary in Glastonbury.

I could have filled baskets of organic food, incense sticks, stones, herbs and potions.

I bought my incense sticks, a small Green Man to hang on the stone wall in the little lobby between the two parts of The FVH and some sesame bars.

I was extremely well-behaved, financially speaking, but I do wish now that I'd bought some sage and lavender to burn at home just in case any of those nasty ghosts still linger....

and so to lunch...

Girls In Glastonbury - Part One

2011-10-16T19:07:00.017+02:00

That was the last time that I place my trust in Google maps.

The drive to Glastonbury should have taken two hours, at most, if Google maps were to be believed. It took me over three and, looking back at the map that I finally had the sense to buy from a small garage after realizing I was totally lost, I had been zig-zagging through Somerset and Wiltshire and back to Somerset like a drunken beetle for that extra hour.

When I finally arrived at The Abbey car park Val had been waiting for ninety minutes and I wouldn't have blamed her if she'd slapped me, several times, for keeping her hanging around so long. She didn't (thank you Val!) instead she leaped off the stone wall where she'd been sitting and told me I was looking wonderful. This is the mark of a good friend indeed.

We set off in convoy to the B&B to check out the two single rooms with a shared bathroom that we'd booked, admire the house itself and leave our bags and cars before setting off for a late lunch. Being Glastonbury I'd anticipated a vegetable curry so that was what I ate. A vegetable curry in a little garden behind the restaurant in a little side street. Perfect.

And then to The Tor because Val knows the local climate and wisely decided that the late afternoon sunshine would be just right for admiring the Somerset countryside from the top. She drove us to a place where we could park closer the The Tor than the plague of double yellow lines permit, round the back, in a lane bordered by hedges and the sweetest blackberries that I have ever tasted. I'm not a lover of blackberries, ordinarily, I tend to avoid fruits with small seed on the grounds that a raspberry seed once lodged in one of my molars and cracked the filling, but these blackberries melted in the mouth leaving a taste of autumn fruits and free, foraged food which always tastes sweetest and so I am now converted.

Oh and being Val she managed to pass a field full of goats and stopped to discuss them with their owner who was feeding them from a bucket. Val is a small-holder and keeps goats and sheep so she knows a good goat when she sees one!

So, we set off to climb The Tor from the back. It was a narrow path and steep steps and a dizzy sheer drop and I am afraid my wonky knees and the odd incline made me feel very insecure. At times I almost crawled on my hands and knees, once or twice I stopped and sat down. Val clambered on like a mountain goat but was patience personified as I followed.

I'm not going to give the official line on The Tor, Google it if you are interested, suffice to say it is impressive, and steep....

It was worth the climb.

From the top we could see for miles and miles.

Far below the town looked like a crouching dragon, complete with smoke coming in puffs from its nostrils and a long green tail with houses for scales.

All around the Somerset countryside was relaxing as the early evening sun sank slowly on the horizon.

Alas, we couldn't see Val's house but we could see Hinkley Point nuclear power station where plans are afoot to build another reactor which, as Val pointed out, could be an environmental disaster in the making since the area once suffered an earthquake and tsunami. Admittedly centuries ago but in terms of the life span on the planet...

Val is a great fan of the Somerset carnivals.

Small communities have their own carnival clubs and get together to put on parades in aid of local charities. We were lucky, there was one due to be held that night in Taunton so we set off in Val's pink car to see it.

I have to say here that Val could, if she so wished, take up a new career as a rally driver, she drove us through those country lanes like a professional. It would have taken me hours to reach Taunton, especially given my ability to get lost on a trip to Tesco, see above and drunken beetle, but we made it in record time, parked near the station (local knowledge again) and set off, Val walking very fast and me limping behind almost, but not quite, holding onto her knitted jacket tassles.

The floats were amazing....

This was the last one, the previous winners of the carnival procession and deservedly so....

A haunted house complete with people in all manner of spooky costumes posing perfectly still.

Imagine the work, the time, the imagination that went into it!

And here is another dragon...

I like this guy!

He looks like Puff The Magic Dragon trying to appear scary, don't you think?

It was rather coincidental to see two dragons in one day, especially as I have the seed of an idea for a second book germinating in my imagination and a dragon features in it rather prominently!

So, that was Day One of Girls In Glastonbury.

It ended with me exhausted, such is the nature of time spent with Val who, despite being in recovery from a serious illness, has more energy, spark, love of life, than anyone I have ever met and who is very good for me indeed!

We returned to our B&B, Val made us a cup of tea because her room had the kettle (mine had the TV) and we said goodnight and clambered into our comfy beds where I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow....

a weekend away...

2011-10-15T09:51:00.002+02:00

I am heading off in a while for a weekend with a fellow blogger/good friend/former almost neighbour in Brittany.

It will be Girls Go To Glastonbury.

It will be new-age people, organic food, mystical places and good all round fun.

As I told a colleague yesterday, I may turn up at work on Monday with The Holy Grail.

Meanwhile I'm leaving you with a link to a new blog that I found this morning

A Femme d'Un Certain Age

Please go and visit and enjoy her lovely posts....

Now, where did I put my headband and beads?

open wide...

2011-10-13T19:13:00.005+02:00

Today I went to a dentist.

That may sound routine, no big deal, but when I was burning-out and stressed to the max, I developed a phobia about my teeth which some days smashed together alarmingly when I tried to speak and which I ground so much in my sleep that they constantly hurt. I also developed a phobia about my hair which was falling out in handfuls so that I became afraid to go to the hairdresser lest I exit the salon bald.

So now, with old anxieties still lurking, I avoid the dentist at all costs and my hair is now so long that it gets in my way and catches on the branches of trees.

I sound attractive, yes?

But recently I have been suffering terrible toothache, to the extent that I am not eating or sleeping well and the sight of a steak or a crusty loaf makes me run in terror.

Yesterday I found a dentist that still accepts NHS patients. As rare as a hen's tooth in the UK where dentists have taken advantage of free university training and then promptly set up in private practice to charge exorbitant fees for treating the public. This may be why we Brits have bad teeth.

So, today I went to the dentist.

After explaining my anxieties and asking the dentist not to look too closely at my teeth lest I take fright and flee with a plastic apron around my neck and a glass of that nasty rinse in my hand, she coaxed me into the chair and examined my teeth. And then she x-rayed them. And lo and behold I have been fostering a really nasty infection in the root of a molar. She was impressed by my pain threshold, even I was impressed by the extent of the bug living deep in my jaw, it proves that a phobia can out-do severe pain any day.

But I was relieved because I've been feeling really tired and weepy lately and now I know what is causing it.

I left with a prescription for antibiotics, again, and an appointment for Monday to have a root-canal thingy and a thorough examination of my gnashers with a view to getting them all sorted. Hopefully they may last me for a few more years. As for my hair, that will probably be down to my waist before long but I shall simply plait it

So now I have new glasses and a new dentist and pretty soon I will have physio for my wonky knees and some meds for my racing heart rate.

Goodness, I shall be almost whole again.

I hope so because I am starting to feel the need for a good adventure

and that husky safari in Lapland is still calling me...

work-life balance

2011-10-12T06:01:00.008+02:00

As many of you know, this has been a real problem for me in the past.

When I was a newly-single mother with a mortgage the size of an EU country's debt and a manager who set more and more hoops for me to jump through daily, culminating in that burning hoop that was one hoop too many, I failed miserably to maintain a work-life balance and fell apart quite spectacularly.

I do like to think that I did it in style though....

However, I now have some tips on how to maintain that work-life balance, they work for me:

1. Chose an employer who respects you for your work and your individuality. Who is not only not afraid of people who think outside the box but who actively seeks and encourages them to challenge the status quo.

2. If that employer also openly announces on their website that you and your colleagues are highly-prized, highly-intelligent and rare people, that is a bonus. It is important to feel valued.

3. Work within an organisation that provides 24/7 services by maintaining offices across the globe. That will ensure you when you are meant to leave the office at the end of the day, you can be confident that others, qualified and skilled will pick up the work load. That took some getting used to, I have to confess, but my days of sitting in bed with an old laptop on my knee and working until 2am, are long gone.

4. Work for a company that actively recruits, even in a global recession. That may mean that you are constantly called on to train new colleagues in your area of expertise, but you will not find yourself doing the work of three people in an effort to keep the customers happy.

5. At the end of the day go home and forget about work. It is ok to take notes, training documents, random samples of complex code etc, home with you but if you do so make sure it's for fun and interest and not because you can't cram it all into the working hours.

6. If you are, as I am, The Office Volunteer, listen to your manager when he tells you you're taking on too much and graciously relinquish some of the load.

7. If you are sick, stay at home and get better. Listen to that manager when he reassures you that you have the right to be sick from time to time and no, you will not take sick days as part of your holiday allowance. The days of being threatened with dismissal because you spent a morning in the ER department with suspected broken neck bone are long gone.

8. Trust your colleagues who should be, for the most part, so clever and competent they leave you breathless with admiration. It is demoralizing to carry the work-load for dumb colleagues who then receive praise and promotion for your hard work.

9. If possible, come home for lunch. Taking a proper lunch break is a habit I acquired in France where lunch is a serious business and never neglected. So three days a week I leave the office to drive home to enjoylunch with a very attractive and cute young male, we eat, we walk in the fresh air and then I tickle his tummy before returning to the office. This also requires that you work close to home. In days gone by I have had jobs which required me regularly to undertake a 200 mile round trip to work. That was exhausting, expensive and extremely bad for me.

10. Go to bed at 10pm. It's early but after a day of intense concentration and work, it is necessary to sleep well. It means waking at 4am but that's a good time to write your novel, study for your university degree and walk the dog as the geese are flying overhead.

11. At home make sure your environment is safe, relaxing and lovely. An open fire, scented candles, lots of books and animals ensure that you can unwind after a day at work. A large and comfy bed with a French quilt and cushions is a must, as is an excellent kitchen and a good, deep bath with plenty of bubbles.

12. Eat well. Cooking may feel like a chore at the end of the day when you're tired, but once you start popping and chopping, dicing and slicing, once the pan starts to sizzle and the aromas waft, then you will find the tiredness ebbing away to be replaced by a feeling of well-being. If your kitchen is large enough, stick in a CD and dance as you cook. Indian music if it's a curry you're making, or Arabic, Italian, Mexican songs to suit that cuisine.

13. Have fun. If you're not the pubbing, clubbing type, and I never was, even in my youth, and you can't bring yourself to pay the prices that restaurants charge for a dish you can cook just as well, if not better, at home (see 12) then have fun in other ways. A Sunday spent deep in the depths of quantum physics, the challenge of learning a new language (some 6000 out there to chose from), studying history, sketching, gardening, walking, exploring are good for you.

14. Find your Tribe and spend time nurturing it. Some people have very large Tribes. Some people have a virtual Tribe in cyberspace. I find that I am most happy with my smaller, more select Tribe. The most special members of my Tribe are in Brittany but I do have a few good friends here and in the blog world. This weekend I will be spending time with one of them in Glastonbury which I hope will result in a Cyber Tour Guide post.

15. If you can be in your mid-fifties that will help. By this age you should have shed your pride, your unreasonable expectations that your life will be perfect, your prejudices and your bad habits. And you will have become wiser and kinder and much more at ease with yourself. If you can manage to avoid trying to look and act like a person twenty years younger you will be happier, trust me. Middle-age is the time when your life begins to make sense and, armed with self-knowledge and many decades of experience, you can finally be the person you were meant to be all along.

16. If it matters to you, fight for it, if it doesn't matter to you, then let it go.

So, I have finally found the work-life balance that best suits me

I could say that I wish I'd done so a decade ago but I had to live through those times and learn their lessons in order to arrive where I am now. And where I am now is rather lovely.

moving on...

2011-10-10T07:57:00.002+02:00

a short post because the dog needs to be walked before I embark on another week of fighting cyber baddies...

The Ragazza arrived on Saturday for a short weekend visit.

I mention this because her words on the phone "I'm feeling homesick" were balm to the soul of the empty-nester and made me realize that no matter where I live, no matter how long the time since she flew the nest, with me is the place she calls Home.

And that moved me immensely.

We spent two peaceful days.

We walked, not as far as we'd have liked due to the swollen knees

We talked, we talked endlessly about social in justice, the WWF polar bears that we've both sponsored without realizing that the other had done so (see the apple does not fall far from the tree), her brother at music college in London, France and friends we have there in common, dogs and cats and science and spies...

We made biscuits, her gingerbread men are lovely, my shortbread is good

We had a coffee and cupcake from Costa

We ate a Chinese takeaway and my chicken with tarragon and cream sauce that is a family favourite and Sunday brunch

and we simply took pleasure in being together

which was perfect for a blustery autumn weekend

on being a mouse...

2011-10-08T09:15:00.009+02:00

Mouse

n mouse [maus]

1 any of several types of small furry gnawing animal with a long tail, found in houses and in fields.

2 (computers) a device that is used to move the cursor on a computer screen and to give instructions to a computer.

adj mousy

1 (of hair) dull brown in colour.

2 timid; uninteresting

n mousehole

a hole made or used by mice.

n mousetrap

a mechanical trap for a mouse.

Many people buy mice as companion pets. They can be playful, loving and can grow used to being handled. Like pet rats, pet mice should not be left unsupervised outside as they have many natural predators

I chose the name A Mouse In France for my blog because it was to be a chronicle of my escape from the rat race "the only winners in the rat race are rats" and because I'd spent the previous two years enviously watching TV programmes about people who had had the courage to leave lives that were mundane and unfulfilling and move to foreign parts, and one in particular caught my attention A House In France.

The large audiences that those programmes attracted proved that a great many of us, stuck in the 9-5 grind, mortgaged to the hilt, unhappy and stressed, were longing to leave it all behind for a new way of living in another culture abroad.

I was no different. Except that my job had become toxic and the stresses of dumb decisions taken by those who ran the company and the bullying tactics of my manager and his cohort were destroying my health. I was in a mousetrap and the only way to survive was to sell my home, leave my son with his father and flee to France with my daughter.

I was careful to maintain my anonymity. I did not wish the people who knew me personally to read about my trials and tribulations or my successes, I did not wish them to share my new adventure. But the cohort (aka The Hostile One), a particularly unpleasant young woman who I had chosen to take from the dole queue and train in technical support, discovered my fledgling blog while snooping one day and posted the first comment. It was bitchy and mildly abusive and very characteristic of her. She also informed my ex-colleagues, also characteristic of her.

But for the most part I was still anonymous. That may all change in the future because once The Book, a fictional tale loosely based on my experiences in France and with a whole dollop of imagination, has been written I plan to write the the real story of how I found myself, at the the of fifty, buying a large house in a small village in Brittany and of the joy and happiness I found there before feeling it necessary to flee once more. And, I hope, it will conclude with me happily returned to France and living peacefully and contentedly there once more. Full circle, end of the fleeing, home again.

In writing the true account of a Mouse In France I hope that I will finally achieve closure and, at the same time, find the voice to speak out against the bullies as I should have done long ago. It is very important to speak out against bullying. It is also important to tell one's story if it can be a cautionary tale to others so The Cowboy will find it interesting reading too.

So, am I a mouse?

I'm small and insignificant although I don't possess a long tail.
I am rather timid and nervous
I've spent my working life being useful to the users of computers.
I am playful and loving and probably make a fun pet but should not be left alone at the mercy of predators.

So, the blog...
Everything that I have written is true.
I have been careful to protect the privacy of other people.
I think that I have always been kind and supportive.
If those who know me read it and feel uneasy perhaps they should take a long, hard look at themselves.
And if they wish to leave anonymous comments they will find that option closed to them. Only people with a Google account will be able to leave a comment and, bearing in mind my current profession, I reserve the right to track them and out them if they are abusive.

So, I will not scamper away and hide in a mousehole.
I will not walk voluntarily into a mousetrap.

People read my blog because it is open and honest.
I do not portray myself as anything other than a middle-aged woman battling with depression and anxiety, and with the bad guys in cyberspace.
Sometimes I hope that I write informative and interesting posts.
Often I just describe a life that is routine and mundane.

je suis comme je suis..

padding, professionalism and public profiles...

2011-10-05T06:50:00.007+02:00

I was idly surfing the net, which sounds rather too energetic for my current physical state, perhaps I should say that I was crawling through the internet, when I decided to check out some of the profile of people on LinkedIn and I came across a couple of women with whom I once worked.

One started a couple of years after me on a similar level and steadily climbed the career ladder until she is now, apparently a Director

The other was a manager when I started who also climbed the career ladder, became a Director and is now simply a Senior Manager again.

Both successful, high-earners, both determined and doing well but...

The first woman, with whom I clashed frequently and openly, is one who I secretly admire. She is focused and determined and very smart indeed. While working she also studied for a degree and then a Masters and then a Doctorate. Her profile on LinkedIn is modest, she lists her impressive qualifications in three simple lines, outlines her career path to date and that's all. No fluff, no padding, to the point, sharp and professional, like her. She is the most focused and professional woman I ever worked with.

The other woman began at the bottom with no qualifications or experience in the field and worked her way up. I suppose she must be smart enough but I suspect that a great deal of that which she achieved was as a result of the culture of nepotism that prevails at that place, she had a friend in high places. She was also good at taking other people's ideas and presenting them as her own. Her profile includes a photograph that has half a child's head in it, and a long list of 'qualifications' that include the three day in-house courses that all tech support people attended and lots of training that really doesn't amount to much. They're the kind of thing that a person without solid, recognizable qualifications includes to fill in the blank lines and make themselves look good. I suspect that she doesn't realize how 'thin' it appears.

It was interesting, and revealing, to compare their two profiles...

I'm pleased for the smart woman, she's achieving the success that she deserves.

I'm also pleased that the not-so smart woman has slipped down the career ladder, she's also receiving that which she deserves

Their profiles speak volumes...

ashes to ashes...

2011-10-02T09:07:00.007+02:00

I was searching through the cavernous interior of the sequined brown bag that holds all that I need to get through a day at work - iPod and charger, phone and charger, wallet, notepad, pens, books, random scraps of paper, a redundant bag of make-up, brush for the unruly curls, etc etc

So, I was searching for the eye-care voucher provided by The New Employer (not so new after three years but..) when I came upon an old photograph of The Someone.

It was taken in Guingamp by his mother and once I was in it too, standing turned towards him, wearing a denim jacket and lacy skirt, a funky scarf round my neck and smiling shyly into the lens while his whole posture was one of a man totally unconnected to me. I could have been any random passing stranger caught unaware in someone else's family photo. We were together but miles apart.

I had cut myself out of the picture long ago, physically and mentally,

and all that remained was him, arrogant, aloof and alone.

For a long time I stared at the image of someone I once loved dearly.

Someone who did not love me.

Someone for whom I was merely a convenience, a place to stay in France, free food, free lodgings, free translations, free love.

I tried to think of the good times we'd shared because there were some good times, good times of companionship and support and the pleasure of being one half of a pair but the memories were overshadowed when I remembered all of the times he would get in a rage and hurl cruel words, when he'd scream in my face that I was worthless, impossible, a failure and then vanish into the night leaving me a wreck, only to return a few days later to "give me a second chance".

It was, I told him on the last such occasion here in England, abuse.

He left, returned to France and promptly found another victim.

I wish that I'd looked at that picture years ago and seen that which I saw today, the real man.

I wish I'd seen him as he was before I let him break my heart over and over again.

Before I'd felt so hunted and so cornered that I'd left my only option was to run away.

Yesterday I gazed at the unsmiling face of the man in the photograph for a long time

and then I struck a match and watched as the flames consumed it

A small ritual to mark, finally, the death of that fateful affair

A letting go and moving on

And it felt so good to see him disappear

ashes to ashes...

picture pinched from a TV advert for Twinnings Tea

I hope they don't mind but it touched me because it is the perfect image of how I felt with him

le weekend

2011-10-01T09:16:00.003+02:00

The great thing about weekend working is the weekend when you don't have to.

I had considered working today, there was a gaping hole one the rota and I, ever the volunteer, struggled with my conscience and with the thought that now The Ragazzo is studying in London the extra cash could be useful for him...

But I'm sorry to say that I declined.

I have worked a great many weekends during the last three years, and Christmas Day, New Year's Day, spring and summer bank holidays too, because I needed the overtime money in order to pay my bills, feed my pets and support my daughter at university. But now it is time to say enough. No more extra shifts, no more six day weeks, other than those which I am contractually obliged to do.

This weekend promises to be beautiful.

We are enjoying a real Indian Summer with temperatures in the low 80's.

This weekend I am going to enjoy my weekend.

Chores today, some reading, some writing, some 'rithmetic. Arranging a chimney sweep even though it's probably not necessary but I have lived in Brittany where the cleaning of the chimney is not just a routine annual event but also a requirement for insurance purposes, and I am, I realise, half-Breton, at least in my habits. An eye test, my first in 7 years and obviously long overdue since I am finding it difficult to read unless I prop the book up five feet away.

And tomorrow, a lazy start, perhaps a bacon buttie and a pot of tea for breakfast, preparing the beef stew for later in the day and then I am off to do something that I have been longing to do for about forty years and which I never managed to do before.

It will involve a longish car journey, a pair of boots, a sharp knife and a basket...

"Can you tell what it is yet?"

(apologies to Rolf Harris)

a late September early morning

2011-09-30T07:24:00.011+02:00

I love these early mornings in late September.

Since I am so exhausted after a day at work I go to bed early, sometimes as early as 9 pm. Not always to sleep, sometimes I read, I write The Book, I watch a science programme on BBC iPlayer, I read, I translate and learn new vocabulary from the day's Le Monde article that has caught my eye, but often to sleep peacefully under my pretty French quilt with the cats and dog in close attendance.

Which means that I wake at around 4am.

It's still dark at 4am. The sky above the green is bottom-less pit black and studded with stars. But slowly, slowly, it begins to lighten with the most delicate colours that are often hard to describe. Today, for instance, it's silver with a delicate gold growing from the east behind the trees but that is fleeting, it is changing as I watch in appreciation.

The air is so refreshing at this hour. I feel as if I could pour it into a glass and gulp it, or else walk outside, open my mouth and sip it from source. I always think that it's gin and tonic with ice and a slice air in the early mornings.

The recent heatwave means that the green is shrouded in a low-lying mist so that the walnut trees look as if they're paddling in a soft, grey sea. When they rise from the mist like this they remind me of sea creatures lifting their heads above the water.

And the air is still, as if holding its breath.

In September there are flocks of geese flying in formation overhead. I love to see them, if I miss their morning flight I feel cheated. And as I type this here they come, calling loudly to announce their imminent fly-past. So many geese in two harmonious groups, skimming the tops of the trees but not disturbing the mist.

There is a reason why I am living here, now.

I am learning the lessons that are long over-due.

I am finally growing at peace with my past and present and building the strong foundations for my future.

On a late September early morning such as this, it all makes perfect sense.

Carpe diem

Marja-Leena, here's a little gift for you

weak at the knees...

2011-09-29T18:37:00.003+02:00

An interesting meeting at work during which The Big Boss looked me in the eye and said "I know that some of you are interested in remote working, aren't you J?" Perhaps I should have spoken out about the unfairness of allowing others, newer than me, to work remotely, complained about the cost of the French taxes that I am still obliged to pay even though the FVH has been unoccupied for three years, expressed my outrage at the whole darned situation?

I smiled sweetly and said nothing, it was neither the time nor the place but this is an industry in which few people have the skills or the dedication to tackle such complex tasks for such little money and we appear to have a constant turnover in the colleague department.

The strongest point in my favour, the ace up my sleeve, is that I have no interest in climbing the career ladder. I am not going to move jobs. I will remain with my employer for at least the next five years, if they wish to retain my services, probably ten years until I retire.

If they were to soften their stance on remote working they would have a reliable, enthusiastic, hard-working, willing little worker, if not I will probably leave next September.

Tell me, would you consider that a worthwhile reason for letting said person work from France?

Meanwhile my guys are doing really well after their initial training and I am going to reward them with a treat tomorrow. Tomorrow I teach them some advanced techniques and let them loose on the systems unfettered by my having to review their decisions.

This is a big step for me.

At The Beast I found it hard to trust my team. I mentored them, guided them, taught them good support techniques but I never trusted them to do a good job. Perhaps that was my failing? Perhaps my pride made it impossible to think they'd do a good job. Perhaps I just had a crap team? A little of all three I think...

Now I don't let ego get in my way. I have learned that if I can get these guys up and running quickly then it shows that I know my stuff and am a good trainer. But I think that I now have good guys to train and that makes all the difference. One of my recent trainees was helping to coach the new guys today and I smiled and thought how lovely that she has the confidence and the knowledge to do so. Trust is all important.

And then it was the X-ray at the local hospital.

I insisted in seeing the results and they didn't reassure me.

We will see what the experts say...

a life that is shrinking....

2011-09-28T20:09:00.005+02:00

Sometimes I feel as if I am dragging myself from Monday to Friday.

Working to live in this expensive country, living to work because that's all I have right now, my work, my dog and cats and The Rags when they have the time to come to see me.

It's ok. Being more secure financially is a blessing for which I am grateful.

I am almost content to be living in this little house by the green.

My work still fascinates me and I get tremendous satisfaction from knowing that it is worthwhile and that it helps people. And training the new guys has brought out all of my motherly instincts and I find myself encouraging them, praising them as they take their baby-steps into their new careers, enjoying each of their successes.

I realize that I am good with people because I care about them.

But it's not enough and I keep remembering the words of The Man With The Van.

"What do you do for J.?"

"You need to give yourself permission to be happy"

The Ragazza , my darling daughter, is living with The BF in their little flat. She has a new life without me.

The Ragazzo, my son who I still feel as if I deserted when I fled to France, is now studying music in London and is loving his new life.

I know that I am not redundant in my role of mother and that I never will be.

They still come to me and I will always welcome them.

But I am not just a mother anymore, I am now a single middle-aged woman.

And I want more than that which I have now.

I want a life that is richer and more fulfilled than this.

I want a larger life than that which I have contrived to achieve.

My life is shrinking and I want it to expand.

Today I booked three ferry tickets to France.

One in March so that I can spend some time working in my garden and cleaning my house.

One in late April/May so that I can be there when the local children come round selling sprigs of lily of the valley flowers.

One in July so that I can be home for the fireworks on July 13th and for my birthday.

When I arrived home there was a letter from my friend H.

It was so lovely to find it waiting for me.

I keep thinking about my house.

If I close my eyes I can almost feel as if I am there.

And now that the ghosts have gone and all that remains are happy memories with the people who are the friends that I love, I miss it a great deal.

My heart is in that small, crazy commune in France...

I really am that mouse in France.

The NHS

2011-09-27T18:50:00.002+02:00

Why is it that when we are told we must starve ourselves we feel an overwhelming desire to eat a cooked breakfast, even if we never eat breakfast except when in a hotel or when staying with lovely friends in France?

This morning I woke at 4am and thought scrambled eggs on toast would be perfect while I waited for the sun to rise over the green. Alas I was fasting before my blood tests. I cheated and drank a cup of tea because I am unable to function pre-PG Tips but the eggs had to remain in the chicken-shaped bowl on the worktop.

So, I duly presented my blood vessels, heart and a jar of urine at 8:50am.

My blood will be tested for early-diabetes, liver and kidney functions, cell counts and to see if it is a good, rich red. The ECG was boring. Especially when my humming 'it goes boom tiddy boom, tiddy boom, tiddy boom' was not appreciated by the nurse who has, it seems, had surgery to remove her sense of humour and bedside manner. She should have known that I was nervous, my notes detail the history of heart disease in my family, the extreme stress to which I was subjected a few years ago and my anxiety attacks. When I am nervous I become talkative. I also sing nursery rhymes and use a great many puns.

The ECG was normal. My blood pressure has dropped slightly, mainly due to a conscious decision on my part not to be stressed since it affects my dog. I have been going to bed early, burning scented candles and refusing to fret for a few days and it appears to be working. Now I await the blood test results.

At the local hospital a lovely receptionist from South Africa made an appointment for an X-ray of both knees for Thursday. Not before time since the left one is also badly swollen now and I look like a knock-kneed idiot when I try to walk.

And then I picked up my meds and booked an eye test and couldn't think of anything else to have checked so I went to work to continue training the new guys on the intricacies of spam detection and blocking.

I tried to look at my ECG on the computer screen but the nurse blocked my view. So unlike France where people are allowed to have their medical notes and I happily carried around a picture of my very enlarged left ovary and my sad arthritic right knee and gazed at them from time to time. It was in France where I was able, finally, to read what my previous doctor had said about The Beast because he carefully noted every single detrimental effect that my previous employer had had on my health so that I could, if I chose, sue them for constructive dismissal and gross misconduct. I also noted my predisposition to ovarian cancer, heart disease and sheer lunacy.

It was interesting reading.

So, now I know that I can control my blood pressure and stress levels I am determined not to let it get out of control again. And once I get my knees sorted and some new glasses there will be no stopping me!

Sunday afternoon...

2011-09-25T16:30:00.003+02:00

I face the prospect of a busy and challenging week ahead.

When I returned to work on Friday there were two new colleagues to replace some of those who have recently-departed, we seem to be ever recruiting these days, and for the next week or so it will be my responsibility to train them in the intricacies of spam detection and blocking.

It is a huge responsibility, training and mentoring new colleagues, but one that I rather enjoy even as I know that I will end the week exhausted.

And then on Tuesday there is the ECG and the blood tests, and I think I have another appointment for a scan of my internal bits sometime in the next week or so.

And the dog is still recovering from his surgery.

So today, Sunday, I decided to clear my mental clutter and calm my mind by sorting, filing or discarding, handling or ignoring some of the piles of paper that litter the Doll's House. I don't know about you guys but I live in house in which piles of papers appear suddenly and in the most unexpected places and I am ever playing paper-chase.

I do try to be organised and methodical.

When the bills arrive, and bear in mind that I receive bills from two countries, then they are placed in the 'immediate attention' spot behind the toaster, unless they're very large bills in which case they are slipped into the blue plastic notepad that I carry with me at all times. That way I can retrieve them and worry over them wherever I am.

The medical appointments/incitements to go and be x-rayed/tested/terrified letters get lost somewhere near my pile of cookbooks. In fact I have had many nasty reminders of an impending check-up while searching for a recipe for cakes.

The credit card and bank statements usually lie unopened for a few weeks because I am very good at avoiding unpleasantries and these are always unpleasant reminders of how darned expensive it is to live in England and, in particular, in this part of that country.

Other correspondence lies in a pile that will, in due course, include work notes, random bits of computer code for detecting banking Trojans of which I am particularly proud, the printed copies of Le Monde articles that I use to practice my French and so on...

Eventually the piles of paper become mountains and I feel compelled to deal with them.

Or else I remember a bill that needs to be paid and go looking for it.

Today I was in a mood to clear the clutter and set about the not one, not two, but seven separate piles of papers that had been lying in various rooms. And when I had finished and they were all filed or discarded it felt like a relief. As is somehow sorting them, even the bills, made my life suddenly more manageable. And there was even the knowledge that I hadn't missed anything horrific or terrifying amongst my recent correspondence. Well, except for the appointment for the scan at the JR in Oxford.

So, mentally a paper-free zone I am almost ready for the new week's challenges

Well, I will be once I have emptied my briefcase of the papers that lurk there and that I forgot.

I want, you want, he wants, she wants...

2011-09-25T08:50:00.002+02:00

I did speak to someone on the return ferry...

I'd wandered out on deck to watch as the Cherbourg peninsula slowly receded in the morning haze and there I met a man. He was also staring at France. After a few minutes he spoke to me.

"France is the most beautiful country in the world" he declared

I smiled at him and continued to gaze south.

"Isn't it?" he demanded.

"Well" I said "It is lovely but so is Italy, especially Umbria, and I love Lapland in the winter and New England is beautiful..." I stopped, not wishing to sound like I thought I knew it all.

"I suppose so" he said "I've only ever been to France"

there was silence for a few minutes and then he spoke again

"You want to move to France"

I looked at him. Was he a mind-reader, I wondered, could he tell what I was thinking?

"I did" I told him "I moved to France five years ago and then I came back"

"What for?" he asked looking at me as if I were insane

"Work" I replied

"Huh, what work is that then?" he asked with that 'she's middle-aged and mousey' look on his face that I encounter so often lately

"I am a computer virus analyst"

"What's that?" he demanded

"It's a machine that does mathematical and logical computations very quickly" I said somewhat facetiously because I was not inclined to continue the conversation

He took the hint and rose to leave

"You want to move to France" he said as his best parting shot

I couldn't argue with that.

I am not usually like that with strangers but this one had touched a nerve.

My mother was always telling me what I wanted and it was rarely true. Usually it was what she herself wanted rather than what I wanted for myself. So now when someone tells me what I want I become irritated and closed-up.

And that man on the deck of the Brittany ferry reminded me of my mother.

Even though he was right, I do want to live in France.

back to the vet

2011-09-24T10:53:00.002+02:00

The oral meds that Tashi ate with his breakfast caused him to vomit several times. It was as if the food hit his stomach and was propelled straight back out again. He was in such obvious distress that I took him back to the vet immediately. It seems that these meds can cause vomiting, in which case they have to be stopped and an injection is given instead.

The vet took his temperature and examined his wound and declared both fine but he's been licking it and so now he has a lampshade to wear for a few days to keep the wound dry and free from further irritation.

It reminds me of when the cats were neutered and their lampshades kept getting in the way so when they tried to walk they caught them on the carpet and turned somersaults. The lampshades were ineffective with two cats, they licked each other and, on the eight day, removed each others stitches.

As well as injecting Tashi and examining him the vet had some extra advice, for me.

Try to stay calm, reassure him if he looks to you for help but do not let yourself become stressed and anxious because he will feed from that negative energy.

As I drove home I reflected on how anxious my dog can be at times.

Last year when life was tough and I was stressed almost to snapping point, he became very agitated and clingy because he picked up on my moods. When we moved house, with all of the disruption and stress that that entailed, he was in a sorry state. It took several months for him to learn to relax and feel safe, as it also took me a long time to recover.

So, my dog is my emotional barometer.

When he begins to feel anxious I know that it is a mirror of my own anxieties and so I must calm myself in order to help him. And I can do that, I may not be very good at looking after myself but if I need to do so in order to care for my dog then I will do it.

Friday woes

2011-09-23T18:56:00.004+02:00

Yesterday my dog was attacked on the green for the third time by the same badly-behaved larger dog. Each time it has been unprovoked, the first time it grabbed his ear and wouldn't let go, the second time I managed to pick up my dog and hold him above my head, yesterday I was almost bitten as I threw myself between them to rescue him.

I decided enough is enough so today he went to be neutered in the hope that this will stop the other dog from picking on him. It may also calm him down, especially when next door's dog is in season.

So this morning was probably not the best time for my doctor to check my blood pressure. It was still high which means that I have to go for an ECG and some blood tests on Tuesday. I also have to go for a knee X-Ray because both knees are now swollen and walking is still very painful.

Tthe dog and I are not having a good time at the moment.

His bits will heal and he will soon forget his unpleasant Friday.

Hopefully my tests will simply show that I am still stressed.

Perhaps The Employer will take pity and decide to let me return to France to work remotely from the peace of the Brittany countryside after all. You never know...

Meanwhile, the pain killers I have been prescribed are wonderful, miraculous. For the first time in six weeks I can move around without being in agony and it is so lovely, so lovely that I danced around the kitchen and into the lounge.

And the dog is sleeping off his surgery.

And it's Friday and I have a whole weekend off.

the world has gone crazy...

2011-09-22T19:43:00.002+02:00

So, Dooce, aka Heather B Armstrong earns more in one month from her random writings about 'poop, boobs, her dog and her daughter' than I do in a year of analysing, detecting and removing computer malware and of working to stem the flood of spam in cyberspace. At least according to this article that I just read.

This is proof, if ever it were needed, that the world has gone crazy.

Times like this I long for the sanity of that small village in the Breton countryside.

autumn 2011

2011-09-22T08:34:00.003+02:00

The morning sun rises later now. Gone are those 5am awakenings when the sun shining in through the bedroom window drew me from my bed. Now it's 6:30 before it rises above the trees that circle the green and, on a cloudy day, it's dark until 7.

A few days ago in France I was taken aback by the late sunrises and then I remembered all of those winter mornings when it stayed dark until nine o'clock or later, because French time is one hour ahead and that means breakfast must be eaten with the kitchen lights switched on and that is hard, especially when it's raining and the west wind is battering the gate to the courtyard.

I'm not so depressed at the prospect of this winter.

Last year there was snow for several weeks and I, ever the child, spent many happy hours walking through it with my furry Finnish boots, my dog and my camera. And there were real fires glowing in the grate and scented candles burning brightly and filling the house with the scents of lavender and roses and bluebell woods.

I am already planning ahead for the darkest months.

I will be starting again on that OU French course, the one that I have attempted and failed to complete several times already. This time I will not only finish the course with all its assignments and studying and the final hurdle of an exam, but I will do well. And then I will have a diploma in French to add to the diploma in English that I have already earned and that BA (Hons) will be a mere hop, skip and a jump over one more English module away.

And I will complete The Book.

Reading websites devoted to the writing of a first novel make the task seem daunting. The impossibility of finding a publisher, the uphill task of writing a good story, the indifference with which the world greets the unknown author and the thought that it may be not worthy of reading all make me hesitate. But then I think of my characters in their little Breton village and I feel sure that this book must be written, their stories must be told, they must be given life. And if no-one thinks it worthy of being publishing then so be it.

And I will talk to The One Who Makes The Decisions about my being permitted to work remotely from France. I will need to have a good proposal to convince her to soften her stance and to permit me to be an exception to the rule. Or perhaps I will simply describe my life in France and how much stronger, more confident, contented I am when I am there and how that can only be good for an employer. Should I tell her that it is unfair that others can work remotely while I, who have undertaken so many extra duties, who do all that they do and much more, may not? Should I talk about discrimination? No, I think not, not unless I finally feel that I must relinquish my role in order to return to France and then I will leave it as a parting gift.

So, for now I will be a good student, a conscientious writer and a perfect employee.

And next year, next year I believe I may be back in Brittany finally living the French dream that I sought five years ago and that I thought I had lost. It wasn't lost, it had simply been misplaced.