petite anglaise

I am filled with dread.

Next Monday is a public holiday in France, for Toussaint. This should be a Good Thing, as it is one of the only bank holidays which has fallen on a weekday in 2004 (we lose when they fall at weekends, which makes Christmas this year a very bad joke), giving us a longweekend. It is however a Bad Thing because I have consented under duress to spend these three precious days with the Evil In Laws.

In order to get to where they live in the Franche Comté region, we have to endure a two hour train journey. During which Tadpole will not want to remain seated, but instead will run continually up and down the carriage, falling over each time the train tilts and running the risk of having hot coffee poured over her head by a fellow passenger. It is not even worth packing a book or an MP3 player in these situations. At best, I will be made to read ‘Miffy’s bicycle’ over and over again. At worst, I’ll be doing laps of the train a few steps behind Tadpole. So that’s 5 hours of our precious weekend already spent in purgatory before we even arrive at our destination. This is because the In Laws do not like Paris, and so despite the fact that FIL is retired, MIL has twice as much holiday as I do and they own cars, we are expected to go to them, accompanied by car seat and pushchair and all the other paraphernalia which you have to cart around when you have a small child, like . We could conceivably hire a car, but this would mean driving for 4-5 hours. An even less attractive prospect.

The In Laws, misleadingly called belle mère and beau père in French, are nice enough people and we actually got along just fine in the beginning. Things turned sour immediately after the birth of Tadpole. Without dwelling too much on the details, let’s just say that I feel I have served my purpose in producing their grandchild (the Frog is an only child so Tadpole is the focus of all their attention) and I now seem to be very much in the way.

I will be expected to surrender Tadpole as soon as I walk through the door, so that MIL and FIL can play mummies and daddies. If Tadpole does come to give me a hug, god forbid, she will be prised from my arms immediately. MIL will sulk if we dare to take Tadpole out with us when we go shopping for her new coat, or when we pay a visit to some of the Frog’s childhood friends. If we do have plans, she is likely to foil them by taking the Tadpole out for a ’short walk’, returning only at nightfall. The latest plan is to persuade the Frog and I to sleep in a room they want to refurbish in the garage/cellar, next to the cars and the boiler, so that Tadpole can sleep in the room next to their own and they can pretend we are not there at all.

So, I’ve made a decision. Next time we are blackmailed into visiting them, I shall let Mr Frog (who is, understandably, partially blind to all of the above) take Tadpole there without me. I think, on balance, I’d rather not see Tadpole at all, than spend the whole weekend inwardly raging. I will be able to shop, blog, read, eat curry and go out on the town. And maybe, just maybe, the In Laws will reflect a little on why I chose not to visit.

I made a flippant remark in my comments box yesterday about this story reported by the BBC. A blogging air hostess known as Queen of the Sky has been fired by the airline who employed her after publishing saucy pictures of herself posing in the cabin wearing her uniform on her blog. And letting her skirt ride up a bit. Given the media attention this has generated, she’ll probably end up in the pages of Playboy, so I’m not too worried about her future employment prospects, but it has got me thinking about the issues involved. And feeling just a little bit paranoid.

The reason I decided to blog as petite anglaise has a lot to do wanting to prevent people I work with from discovering I am the author of this blog. Even though at the moment most of them wouldn’t have a clue who Belle de Jour is or what the word ‘blog’ means. My family and close friends are in the know, and some even read regularly, but I’d rather my co-workers remained blissfully unaware of the fact that the Frog won’t marry me or that he owns a baaing sheep thong, unless I choose to tell them myself. Similarly, I believe I have a duty to protect the identity of the Frog and Tadpole. It’s only fair. They don’t have any control over what I write and the Frog’s co-workers might conceivably read it one day.

As for my own boss reading this blog? It is my worst fear. He’s an expat it the land of the Frogs, as is his wife, so you never know whether one day their internet surfing might wash them up on these shores. I imagine the main issue my employer would have with my blogging would be to establish whether I post on company time. Mostly I blog at lunctime or in the evening (the time of posting being irrelevant and events not necessarily occurring on the day I say they do), but of course I do surf other people’s blogs and write my own during slack periods at work. Pre petite anglaise I used to openly read the Guardian when my in tray was empty, and the response this elicited from my boss was usually along the lines of ‘oh yes, I read that story too this morning on my palm pilot, what do you think about it?’, but you never know for sure how people will react, do you? So, as a precaution, you won’t find me moaning about my boss here.

Anyway, *coughs*, he is the best boss I’ve ever had, and it would be difficult to fault him.

When the Frog and I decided the time had come to procreate, it never once occurred to me to give up my job.

First compelling reason: money. Despite the Frog’s executive title, his job in advertising doesn’t pay any better than my secretarial 9-5. One salary will not pay the rent and would certainly not stretch to a mortgage. It was hard enough surviving on state benefits (about € 450 per week) for the five months I was on maternity leave. If I’d extended this (possible in theory up to 3 years) I would have received no financial aid whatsoever, just the right to claim a job from my (very pissed off) employer at equivalent pay once the time was up.

Secondly, in France the number of women who return to work far outnumber those who do not, and childcare is pretty affordable in comparison to the UK. I pay about € 700 a month for a full time childminder, who looks after the Tadpole and two other girls in her own home, but also takes them to the library, to a music appreciation class and a playgroup, as well as to the park every afternoon. If I’d managed to get a place in a state run crèche (which would have required relentless badgering of the directrice de crèche on my part, something I wasn’t motivated enough to do), it would cost even less. It means that continuing to work is financially more attractive than staying at home.

Finally, and most importantly, I was going out of my mind home alone. Everyone I know in Paris works, and during my leave I couldn’t shake off a feeling of guilt that I should be working too - the same feeling I get when I’m off work ’sick’ with nothing to do but watch daytime television. I had no other stay at home mum friends to speak of, despite the fact that I belong to an expat mums network. It was summertime and everyone was away on holiday, and in any event they tend to live at the other (more affluent) side of Paris, and the pediatrician’s advice (which as I new mum I followed to the letter) was to avoid the hotbed of harmful bacteria that is the Paris metro for the first twelve months or so. The perspective of continuing to spend long days alone with only the tiny, and to be honest at that stage not particularly entertaining, Tadpole for company was terrifying.

It’s now just over a year since I returned to work, and I have to say that despite the loudly voiced reservations of my family in England, it is working really well. Tadpole loves her childminder, and has formed a very strong bond with the other two children she cares for. They greet each other in the mornings with cries of excitement and bisous and it’s a lovely sight to behold. The time we do spend together is really precious and I love the look of delight on her face when I arrive to collect her in the evenings. After which we play. Until Eastenders starts, by which time she must be tucked up in bed.

For my part, I have an adult life by day, filled with grown up conversations that don’t revolve solely around being a mother. And yes, discussing what is happening on Eastenders or 24 ,or whatever else I happen to be watching, and bitching about our bosses is the kind of social contact I do not feel able to live without. I don’t think about Tadpole much during the day, because my life as a mum and my life at work feel very separate, but on the way to pick her up in the evenings I can feel my excitement growing as the metro draws closer to home.

In summary: I’m a working mum out of choice and I’m happy that way.

So, why is it then that I felt so horribly guilty whilst writing this post?

A decade of living in France has sadly taught me little about wine.

The Frog and I tend to drink mostly Bordeaux, which according to Father In Law is the only red worth drinking. However, I haven’t got a clue which years are supposed to have been good years. Or which bottles are supposed to be kept for a while, as opposed to the ones which are suitable for drinking now. I once bought a book about French wine (now gathering dust on my bookshelf) with the intention of starting a cave so that we would always have a plentiful supply on hand. However there is nowhere suitably dark and cool in our apartment. I did put a couple of bottles in our cellar when we moved in, but the fact that I’m scared to go down there on my own (it’s very badly lit, a torch is required and there are several dark corridors where I can all too easily imagine things to be lurking), and that we live on the fifth floor tends to prevent us from uncorking a bottle from the cellar on a whim. It’s less hassle to go the corner shop.

When I have to buy some wine because we have guests, there is much crossing of fingers and I tend to play safe and buy a bottle with (grand) cru classé or cru bourgeois written on it. Or just throw sufficient money at the problem. If it costs over € 15, I consider it should good enough to take around to someone’s house for dinner. If the label proudly boasts that the wine won a médaille d’argent in 1996, I am just confused. Does this mean that what they produced in 2004 is any good? Or are they just trading on their former glory? If I really want to make a good impression, I ask an assistant in the wine shop to recommend something. But this inevitably leads to questions like ‘what will you be eating?’. What am I supposed to do, phone the host and ask?

The English tend to like a bit of Côtes du Rhône (to my FIL’s horror), and pay well over the odds in the UK for bottles which would be relegated to the bottom shelf in any French supermarket. In a gastro-pub in Yorkshire where I recently had a gorgeous meal with my family, the wine, costing about a tenner, turned out to be a vin de table made from ‘a blend of French wines’. The kind of bottle that should have had a screw top and that would be fit only for outdoor consumption by alcoholic clochards in France. Now when in England, I tend to stick to New World wines, because they seem to be far better value for money.

The French, chauvinistic as they can be, do not acknowledge that wine is produced anywhere else in the world but in France. Go into any Nicolas wine shop and have a look around. All the French regions are represented, but you’ll be unlikely to find any Australian, Californian or South African vintages on offer. The only place you might find these would be in a restaurant specialising in food from those countries. I would very much like to perform a ‘pepsi challenge’ type test on the FIL to see whether he can actually tell the difference between an Australian red and a similar French wine. I have my doubts.

Of course, I may be an oenological philistine, but at least I have the excuse of hailing from working-class, ale-swilling Yorkshire stock. The Frog has no such excuse. On a rare occasion where I deigned to cook for some French friends and actually impressed them with my warm goats cheese and pear salad followed by roasted salmon with wild rice (I think they were half expecting boiled meat and baked beans), Frog was dispatched off to get some white wine. As he reached for the corkscrew, our guests caught sight of the label and cried out in horror.

The Frog had bought dessert wine. I don’t think he will ever live that down.

I sometimes worry that Paris is not the best place for a Tadpole to grow up - polluted air, crotte covered pavements and the lack of a garden being my usual arguments in favour of a move to the countryside. But given the number of wild beasts we spotted together this morning, I’m not so sure she is missing out on too much…

First, when we turned on the light in the bathroom this morning, Tadpole and I disturbed a couple of slinky silverfish who darted without further ado to their diurnal hiding place where the water pipes disappear behind the bath. These shiny little apostrophes are thankfully the only fauna I have observed inside our flat, and I’m not too worried about them, even if they do seem to be resistant to bug spray. They remind me of a record I once owned called Silverfish and Scrambled Eggs, which is the only reason I know what a silverfish looks like.

Upon opening the shutters of the Tadpole’s bedroom, we marvelled at the sight of a common city pigeon in all its glory defecating on the balcony. Tadpole now thinks these birds are called ‘dirty buggers’. Note to self: must really make an effort to rein in my tongue as she now repeats everything I say.

During our walk to the childminder’s house, which involves cutting across the Buttes Chaumont park, we saw a crow (or possibly a raven, either way it was very sinister looking), some blackbirds, more pigeons, along with much greenish grey evidence of their presence, and some sparrows. Several different breeds of dogs out were also out walking their owners, prompting cries of ‘woof woof’ and ‘wee wee’ and ‘caca’ from the Tadpole.

As we neared the lake, brandishing a chunk of rather solid baguette left over from the previous day, we saw all manner of birds, geese and ducks. According to the park’s website these include black headed gulls, moorhens, black swans, green collared (?) ducks and ragtails. All I know is that some of the duck type things we encountered were rather large and not in the least bit shy, so the Tadpole remained in the safety of the pushchair while I attempted to break the bread into pieces and avoid being pecked to death by impatient and aggressive birds. One poor little duck had to keep dunking his head under the water to avoid a (sea?)gull who kept lunging down at him in an attempt to steal the bread from his beak. When we’d had as much excitement as we could handle, we left the park and cut across the front of the town hall to make our way to the childminder’s flat.

A black cat ran across the pavement in front of us as we neared the bakery. I stopped to contemplate buying a sinful pain aux raisins to combat that Monday feeling, but after seeing a cockroach take a leisurely stroll along the glass topped cake counter, I thought better of it. There’s no point eating one if you have to inspect every single sultana.

Finally, after dropping off Tadpole, out of the corner of my eye I saw a mouse streaking across the tracks as the metro approached. And to round things off nicely, I was bitten on the ankle by a pesky metro mosquito.

David Attenborough eat your heart out.

I’ve got that Friday feeling. A British voice inside my head insists that Fridays are for going out after work and letting a couple of beers turn into a full-on night out (with compulsory junk food finale). Saturday nights are for getting on your glad rags and drinking too much again. Sundays should be spent nursing multiple hangovers and indulging in a curative cholestorol fest of English breakfast.

None of the above really work in Paris. First things first, the curative breakfast (because if you have been paying attention, you can’t fail to have noticed that I’m somewhat food-obsessed): what the French call ‘bacon’ is thinly cut round pieces of bacony ham which are not intended for cooking. And you can’t really make a good fry up with lardons (cubes of bacon). So a fry-up as an antidote to alcohol overindulgence is out.

As for Friday drinking with your work colleagues, there appears to be an unwritten rule of social etiquette in this country: thou shalt not mix thy social life with thy work life. I find this is a real pity, because alcohol (even in moderation) can break down so many barriers, and seeing your co-workers socially gives you a chance to get to know them as people. But unless there is an official company pot to celebrate someone’s promotion or give them a send off, it’s pretty hard to get the French involved in any after work drinking. This is one of the reasons why most of my friends tend to be anglo-saxons, with the odd French alcoholic thrown in.

Now for the drinking part. Drinking is done differently in France. Most people don’t go out drinking with the sole aim of getting drunk. You might go to a bar for a couple of drinks and a chat, but as drinks are served at your table, you will drink less whether you like it or not as it’s impossible to get the skinny, aloof and overworked waitresses’ attention. Drinks are prohibitively expensive in bars and restaurants, which doesn’t help matters. You do tend to take your time over 25cl of lager when it has cost you four euros. In any event you are unlikely to spend a whole evening with French people just drinking. It is far more likely that you’ll have an apéro together before a meal, or a drink afterwards.

Turning to the glad rags, most of the bars I frequent(ed) are full of people dressed very casually. Before you don that cheeky little number from Miss Selfridge which shows swathes of bare flesh, note that the sleazy single men propping up the bar will treat you as if you have a ‘desperate to get laid’ sticker on your forehead and you will spend the evening fighting off their unwelcome advances (”tu as des beaux yeux, tu sais..”). Safer to stick with something understated, preferably in black.

Finally, if you are female then you should be aware that drinking to excess is considered very unfeminine in this country. I have, on occasion, mostly in situations where alcohol was flowing freely at a party in someone’s apartment, made something of a spectacle of myself by drinking like an English person and getting what I would describe as ‘moderately lairy’. The Frog promptly marched me off the premises and still refers to such episodes several years later. I’m not saying this is fair or right (it’s blatant sexism and makes my blood boil), but like it or not, that is the way things are here.

So, if I can’t shake this Friday feeling, I’ll have no option but to hop on a Eurostar after work. Anyone fancy a couple of pints?

A recent post by Andre reminded me of my own brief encounter with an angel years ago.

The year was 1994. The third year of my modern language degree, which consisted of nine months employed as an assistante d’Anglais in a French lycée followed by a few months work in a posh Hotel in Lindau, as my German was a bit rusty.

Lindau was idyllic: a picture postcard town crammed onto a tiny peninsula jutting out onto Lake Constance on the German-Austrian-Swiss border. The Hotel was a 5* palace. Behind the scenes, a motley crew of former Yugoslavians and foreign students on seasonal contracts kept the place in business.

First, I worked on the ‘Band’. This was an ingenious implement of torture: wooden boxes suspended from the ceiling on a metal chain - an upside down conveyor belt - transported food from the kitchen in the next building to the restaurant. My job consisted of retrieving food orders from this fast moving production line without dropping them or burning myself too badly, while simultaneously baking bread rolls in a tiny oven. Kitchen staff barked incomprehensible orders in German at me through an intercom. I couldn’t hear them properly as the ‘Band’ made such a racket, so I never knew what was coming and missed things so that they went round and round getting cold(er). It was undoubtedly the worst job I have ever had.

After a particularly bad burn I was transferred to minibar duty. *hic* This was an improvement. It involved the use of a master key, entering people’s hotel rooms after knocking twice and often catching guests in compromising positions. When I shouted ‘minibar’ they tended to beckon me in regardless and I filled up the fridge while they clutched the bedclothes to themselves to preserve their modesty. Or not. My minibar stock was not checked very closely. It contained lots of alcohol and Ritter Sport chocolate bars. A much better job. Things were looking up.

Until one morning I awoke to a searing pain in my abdomen. It worsened, and my temperature rose. I realised that something was very wrong and called reception, begging them to send a doctor, as I couldn’t possibly move. A Dr Wurms arrived and diagnosed acute appendicitis. An ambulance was summoned. A rumour swept through the hotel: I’d been seen clutching my stomach and was in fact in labour. One of the porters was the father. They obviously didn’t teach biology in Yugoslavia as the one night stand with the porter had happened only 3 weeks previously.

As if by magic, an angel appeared, to save me from all of the above. I can’t remember his face clearly. Only that he was very beautiful, had lovely wavy, shoulder length hair and there was something indescribably ‘right’ about him. He was a student, serving his conscientious objection time working with the emergency services. I don’t remember anything else he said to me, just his soothing voice. I forgot all about the pain and wanted the ambulance journey to last as long as possible.

I was wheeled into casualty, where several other people lay on stretchers in an open-plan area. There were no cubicles or curtains, but I wasn’t really aware of anyone else - I was burning up and the pain had intensified. As I lay on my back, a nurse took my temperature. The Angel turned to walk away, and I managed to prop myself up on one elbow, catch his eye and wave goodbye. He waved back. I think he winked, but I couldn’t be sure. And that, sadly, was the last I saw of him.

As I waved, I became aware of the fact that I was naked from the waist down. And that a thermometer was protruding from my rectum.

I can’t help thinking that I must have made a lasting impression on him too.

If you look at the use of the word ‘French’ in the English language and likewise anglais(e) in French, the usage yields valuable clues as to how Brits have traditionally viewed the French, and vice versa.

Phrases in English using the word French are mostly related to food and sex. The French would argue they do both better.

Let’s start with food:
French toast - which you don’t see in Britain much, I think it’s more American. I have yet to sample any. Probably the equivalent of pain perdu in French, but I wouldn’t know, as I haven’t tried that either.
French fries (or Freedom Fries as they are sometimes known in the US) - just ‘fries’ in France.
French beans - these seem to be the only type of green beans the French eat, known to the French simply as ‘green beans’. My father, allotment enthusiast extraordinaire, doesn’t believe me when I say I am not aware of a word existing for broad bean or runner bean in French. Quite frankly I would rather broad beans did not exist full stop (that’s period to American folk).

And now for a bit of sex. It would appear that the following expressions stem from Anglo-Saxons equating Gallic culture with sexual sophistication. Whether or not this is still pertinent today is debatable. ‘French kiss’: a kiss with tongues. Following extensive research conducted on both sides of the English Channel, my humble opinion is that the Brits actually have the edge (Mr Frog being the exception, naturally). Then we have the ‘French letter’, disliked unanimously by both French and English gentlemen, which confusingly goes by the name of un préservatif in French, thereby belonging to the category of ‘false friends’. ‘Cette confiture contient-elle des préservatifs?’ I think not.

I am told that the verb ‘to French’ means to perform oral sex. Likewise the seemingly innocent manicure/furniture restoration terminology, to have a ‘French polish’. I do not intend to develop this paragraph any further as I wouldn’t want to give the worrying numbers of people who arrive on my site via the search terms ‘petite porn’ any reason to come back.

Swiftly moving on, the following are expressions using the word ‘English’ in the French language.

Culinary terms using the word ‘english’ are rather evocative of English cuisine as a whole, I think. Crème anglaise is what the French call custard, that staple of stodgy British puddings and trifles. The French version of this is thinner and served cold, a little more refined than warm, gloopy English custard. I like both and will not be made to choose. Cuit à l’anglaise means boiled. Several of my French acquaintances associate English cooking with overcooked boiled food, even going to far as to suggest that we boil most of our meat. I for one have never boiled a piece of meat, but I must admit that the French expression conjures up memories of soggy sprouts in the school canteen.

Les Anglais ont débarqué is a somewhat old-fashioned expression to describe the bane of every woman’s life, menstruation. Something to do with the Napoleonic wars and the undesirable arrival of the English who wore red uniforms. Prior to that, another phrase commonly used was recevoir un courrier de Rome, as Cardinals also wore red robes. So the idea behind the phrase would appear to be more about colour, and not derived from ‘English’ being synonymous with pain, PMT and hot water bottles.

Finally, there is an expression meaning to go AWOL which the French and English ascribe to each other. Filer à l’anglaise: ‘to take French leave’. The Germans are with the English on this one sich auf französisch verabschieden, but the Italians are with the French filarsela all’inglese. So opinions vary, but basically both the French and the English are associated with impolite behaviour.

Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to bugger off now and do some work. Pardon my French.

I will never cease to marvel at the tantalising array of cakes on offer in a typical French Pâtisserie. When I first arrived in Paris, I set myself the not unpleasant challenge of eating a different pastry every day until I ran out of options. I soldiered on for three whole weeks before abandoning the enjoyable experiment, as there was no end in sight and I was already unable to fasten my trousers.

As I have said before, purchasing a new cake for the first time is a rather tricky business, as baker’s shops never seem to put the gender on the little cardboard signs. Probably on purpose. So that only French people can buy them without having to resort to undignified pointing.

A firm favourite of mine is the religieuse (situated to the right of the éclairs in the photo) It’s like a round eclair with another round bobble of choux on top. So called because it resembles a churchgoing lady in her Sunday best. Allegedly. Very tasty as long as the filling (chocolate or coffee, not plain whipped cream like in the UK) is strongly flavoured enough. Personally I’m rather fond of moussey layer cakes with elegant names like Opéra, but these must be transported with care and eaten with a spoon, so are not suitable for a quick sugar fix when on the move.

One which I have yet to try is the gland, another variation on the choux pastry theme, but this time with rather vivid green icing and chocolate sprinkly bits on top. I have no idea what the flavour of the filling is and prefer not to speculate. Gland in French means ‘acorn’. This has the same connotations in French as in English. So, being a girl who can’t even eat a banana in public without first breaking it into small pieces, you’ll understand why I won’t be partaking of a glans gland any time soon.

I stood in front of the baker’s shop window yesterday evening, pondering over what I could buy as a little treat to brighten up my otherwise dreary Monday, and was surprised to feel a pang of longing for a boring old British cake. A bun with fluorescent icing and smarties on top. Or an iced bun - i.e. a bread finger with icing on. Then I remembered the gingerbread ghosts I had purchased in England last weekend, supposedly for Halloween.

*wipes crumbs off keyboard*

With the benefit of hindsight, I think the ginger would have been too strong for the Tadpole anyhow. And she’s too young to understand about Halloween. Isn’t she?

*Try this at home: type the word ‘gland’ in google and search for images. Only then will you appreciate what I went through to find a photo of the French cake. Not for the faint hearted.

Whenever the Tadpole is around I can’t seem to stop myself from providing a running commentary about what we are doing. I don’t know whether all mothers do it, but it comes naturally to me. The Frog would say that nothing has changed as I always have talked far too much; he has been known to beg me to stop on the grounds that his head is ‘full’. I blame the parents for taking me to Ireland and dangling me off the top of a tower upside down by my ankles to kiss the Blarney Stone.

When I was on maternity leave last year and feeling a bit cut off from the world, the one-way conversations with baby Tadpole probably began because I was feeling lonely and missing adult conversation. Tadpole seemed to like the sound of my voice, even if it was the slightly irritating, condescending voice I can’t help adopting when I talk to children. Nowadays the running commentary is supposed to be educational: encouraging her to repeat new words and exposing her to as much spoken English as possible.

The following ‘conversation’ took place while pushing the Tadpole through the park. I was rather out of breath as the journey is uphill and Tadpole + pushchair = 20kg.

Petite, wheezing and panting: ‘Ooh look at the doggy! What does the doggy say? Can you see the doggy? Over there! No, not that way! That’s a crow not a doggy!’

Tadpole, eventually: ‘woof’

Petite: ‘And what’s that? Look it’s a duck. Can you see the duck in the water? What does the duck say?’

Tadpole: ‘cack cack’

Petite: ‘Ooh look at those joggers. That one’s got very nice brown legs hasn’t he? And look at those sexy little shorts. They don’t leave much to the imagination do they?’

Tadpole ‘?!?’

As you can see, I take the Tadpole’s education very seriously.

I apologise for the lack of a proper post today but in my defence I have been mostly coughing, coughing some more, wiping the tears from my eyes, taking paracetamol and then doing a bit more coughing. I think my head is going to explode.

And since it was impossible to sleep (because of the coughing, in cause you missed that) I read The Da Vinci code. I really don’t know what to make of it. Mr Brown writes like a seven year old who has swallowed a few reference books. And possibly quoted passages from them, and a few tourist brochures, verbatim.

Anyway, now that’s finished I’m going out to source the French equivalent of Benylin, and possibly to pay my respects to Mary Magdelene en route.

Will be in Blighty this weekend with Frog and Tadpole, so next post will be on Monday.

A bientôt…

…avec moi ce soir?

That wasn’t an invitation. Sorry to disappoint.

It is however the French phrase which everyone seems to know. And I’ll come back to it in a minute.

The fact that there are two words for ‘you’ in French is another of the things which makes it difficult for English speakers to master the language.

In a nutshell, tu is the familiar you. It demonstrates a certain closeness and informality. So you would address a friend, peer, colleague, relative, child or pet as tu. If you talk to yourself, I imagine you would use it too.

Vous is the formal and plural you. It is used to show respect or maintain a certain distance or formality. To complicate matters, it is also the plural form of both tu and vous. Typically you would use this when talking to someone you don’t know well, an older person, an authority figure, or to two or more people or animals.

So coming back to my opening phrase, if you say ‘Voulez-vous couchez avec moi ce soir’ then I would assume that you are a slapper/prostitute (a complete stranger?), you are in the market for a sugar daddy, a policeman, a ‘partouse’ (orgy) or a spot of bestiality.

During the French Revolution, and again in the liberal 60’s, waves of tutoiement helped to get the point across that all men should be equal and be addressed in the same way. Nowadays some companies advocate use of tuin the workplace when they want to be seen as progressive. But this can go too far. Sometimes a bit of distance doesn’t do any harm or a respectful Vous just feels right. When French TV interviewer Karl Zero addresses a politician he is interviewing as tu, which is his trademark, I inwardly cringe. He maintains that in so doing he is trying to bring down barriers and show that everyone is equal. To me this affectation makes him seem arrogant: it’s a case of look at me, I’m important enough to say tu to the Prime Minister…

If in doubt, you are supposed to ask the person you are talking to whether they mind you addressing them as tu. Former president Mitterand’s subtle rebuff in response to this question was apparently ‘Si Vous voulez…’

I call my in-laws vous. I can’t decide whether this is because they are old/authority figures/not in my family or whether it’s just me keeping my distance.

But it feels right.

It’s not often I come across a word I don’t know/can’t guess the meaning of. But this morning looking for the first time at the guide to the Paris metro on the station wall while waiting for my train, I saw this puzzling word:

podotactile

It sounds like a name for a foot fetishist, or possibly a type of dinosaur. But in fact, it is the word used to describe the textured strip which runs along the edge of the metro station platform, which you can feel with your feet. Presumably to stop people who can’t see very well/at all from falling off the edge. So foot fetishist was close: those GCSE Latin lessons with Mr Shaw (where Caecilius was cheating on his wife with the slave girl) did have their uses after all.

So, podotactile is officially word of the week.

I challenge you all to use it in conversation at least twice.

I am regretting my rant about hypochondriacs somewhat, as I have a sore, ‘grated’ throat and swollen glands today and am feeling particularly sorry for myself (although I’m told my husky voice is quite sexy). I really fancied a day in bed, but my Britishness dictated that I must turn up to work drugged up to the eyeballs instead, blow my nose ostentatiously, generally cough and splutter over my colleagues and propagate my germs more efficiently through the air conditioning system.

Plus it’s bonus/evaluation time of year, so a bit of conspicuous martyrdom can’t hurt.

I have posted in the past about my place of work and some of my colleagues. I was initially reluctant to say what I do for a living, but I have decided to ‘come out’ today.

I’m a secretary. There, I said it. Or Personal Assistant if you prefer. Quite frankly I don’t give a damn what you call it: I’ve had roles where I virtually ran the office where I was a ’secretary’ and others where I did mind-numblingly tedious work as a ‘PA’. The title in itself doesn’t mean a great deal.

In my various incarnations I have worked for a team of investment bankers (fast moving, lots of arrogant people, well-paid), for a start-up (don’t talk to me about stock options), in the office of the president of a luxury goods empire (free perfume, good Christmas presents, rather stifling atmosphere) and now for a small English firm (Cadbury’s chocolate, Tetley tea, beers after work).

After university my only goal was to live in Paris and learn to speak French like a native. First I taught, and once my time on the exchange programme was up, I decided to do a bilingual secretarial diploma. What I first saw as a well-paid, stop-gap job while I worked out what I really wanted has become what I do and who I am. And I enjoy it: organising things/people appeals to the bossy, obsessive side of my nature. The fact that I have to work in French keeps me on my toes. But while I’m not ashamed of being a secretary, I can’t help feeling that I was supposed to have more ambition, that I owed it to myself to aim higher, that I haven’t done myself justice.

The downside to this job is that my longevity often depends on that of my boss. I have left more than one company because my boss did, and I had no desire to be ‘inherited’ by someone I had no affinity with. Affinity is also a problem - it is important to get on well with one’s boss, but not too well or else the rumour mill will crank into action and before you know it the entire office assumes you are having a torrid affair.

I recently watched the film ‘The Secretary’ (odd but intriguing), which has left me with some rather disturbing mental images.

I don’t see any parallels with my job. But please excuse me while I just go and pick up a fax with my teeth…

I almost took part in a threesome on the way to work this morning.

The scene took place in a crowded, rush-hour metro, at 9:05 (although I should have been at work for 9:00). I was uncomfortably close to my fellow passengers, praying that the object pressing into my back was an umbrella or part of somebody’s bag. It being pre-morning espresso, I was not fully awake yet. The soundrack, courtesy of a couple of Eastern European buskers was a rendition of ‘My Way’ on accordian and a tambourine, the backing track blaring out from one of those amplifiers on wheels they all seem to have these days.

At Gare de l’Est a couple got on.

He was in his forties, and had what I call the ’second-rate sales rep’ look. He was dressed in one of those rather unattractive mustard coloured suits that a certain type of Frenchman seems to favour, his trousers just slightly too short, revealing gleaming white socks. Nasty brown suede lace up shoes rounded the whole look off perfectly.

She, also in her forties, looked like his company’s receptionist: a little over made-up, brittle hair dried out from one too many home bleaching kits, outfit on the tarty side.

I am guessing that they had ‘got together’ for the first time the previous night. Which may explain - but certainly does not excuse - their slurping all over each other in the metro approximately 2 centimetres from my face for the entire journey. I tried to escape, but it was impossible to put any more distance between us. Looking down at my shoes didn’t help, as it only served to make me aware of what they were doing with their hands.

I don’t think I’ve snogged in public since I was at sixth form college (and in retrospect I cringe).

I couldn’t think of anything suitable to say as I gratefully beat a hasty retreat upon arrival at my stop. Can any of my French readers suggest a suitable French parting shot, the equivalent of ‘get a room’?

My neighbourhood is changing and not for the better.

Two years ago when we arrived in the 19th arrondissement we loved the cosy, ‘villagey’ atmosphere of our stretch of tree-lined avenue, with its traditional butcher’s, baker’s, delicatessen, greengrocer’s, flower shop and old fashioned café in a cobbled square with its zinc bar . The shops looked like they had been there since the appartment buildings were built, circa 1900, and had a shabby sort of old world charm. Sadly some of this character now seems to be ebbing away.

When our local baker’s re-opened in September after several weeks of refurbishment work, I was saddened to see that the art nouveau shop front had given way to red wood and plastic to mark the baker’s official allegiance to the Banette franchise. The marble counters inside have been replaced with shiny new glass and metal display cabinets. It is now devoid of all character. I still shop there - it’s the only decent bakery in the area - but I can barely restrain myself from chastising the owners for selling out.

The latest development is the arrival Sushi Nina, where previously there was a lovely traditional Charcuterie - Volailles - Fromagerie. It’s one of a small Jewish chain selling kosher sushi and bagels: the sushi is mediocre; our area, which is close to the Belleville Chinatown, was hardly suffering from a lack of Asian food in the first place. And it is just plain ugly: a hideous eyesore in red and black plastic with garish red lights, grafted onto a lovely old building.

What I have always loved about France, is that unlike the UK, although there are some chain stores you find in every town, there have always been plenty of independent artisans plying their wares too. Butcher’s shops with a cows head and pigs’ trotters in the window; the kind of place where there is a label on the meat telling you which farm the animal came from, and possibly its name. Nice piece of prime Ermintrude steak anyone? A cheese shop displaying mature, non-refrigerated cheeses in various stages of decomposition, accompanied by a stench of sweaty socks. A greengrocer’s with pyramids of painstakingly arranged fruit and vegetables. France would not be France without them.

Of course, having said all this, hypocrite that I am, I don’t actually patronise most of my local shops. Well, would you pay € 20 a roast chicken from the local butchers when it costs € 8 in the supermarket? But I know I should, lest they die out altogether.

Just in case you missed it, check out A Free Man in Preston to see what backroads, Leanne and I have been getting up to in Tim’s absence over the past fortnight.

Fear not, he’ll be back in a couple of days and normal service will resume.

If the Frog ever utters the word ‘bag’, I now know that it is wise to run for cover immediately.

I learnt this the hard way.

It was four in the morning back in the year 4BT (Before Tadpole) and I was sleeping peacefully. The Frog had been to one of his soirées with his advertising agency clan. Whenever they are involved, ‘dinner’ means ‘not home before dawn’.

I was woken by a fumbling noise at the front door and muffled swearing as keys were dropped. The Frog then stumbled around the flat in the dark, probably trying not to wake me up, but about as subtle as a herd of stampeding buffalo. I pretended to be asleep, as I was not in the mood for slurred conversation. The stench of alcohol preceded him into the bedroom, and as he clambered into bed, he mumbled something. I caught only the word ‘grappa’.

Just as I started to drift back off to sleep, slowly becoming inebriated myself in the 90% proof air, the Frog made a strange coughing noise. He lifted his head up off the pillow, and then said ‘baaag?!!’ in a strangled voice. And I think you know what happened next…

I do not enjoy changing the bedclothes and washing down the walls at 4am but sometimes it is a necessity. I also hosed down the Frog in a (cold) shower. Revenge is sweet.

Two things occur to me about his exclamation with the benefit of hindsight:

First of all, who did he think he was talking to? An air hostess? Perhaps I should have a pocket fitted onto the headboard with an in-flight magazine and a paper bag for emergencies? A drop down oxygen mask for myself might also come in handy.

Secondly, and most surprising of all, is the fact that the word which sprang to his alchohol-addled mind was not ’saaac’. Only rarely have I hurt myself and said ‘aiiee!’ instead of ‘ouch’. It’s like a reflex : that kind of interjection usually comes out in the mother tongue.

But I must admit I do sometimes come out with an ‘oh là là ‘ of astonishment. On those grounds alone I think I should be awarded French nationality.

What a grim morning.

First, I had to take the Tadpole to see a radiologist for x-rays of her right arm. The childminder sheepishly mentioned last night that she had heard a ‘cracking’ noise when she struggled to prise loose the Tadpole’s hand from the swing at the playground. Tadpole refused to use that arm/hand all evening, so (panicking slightly) I called SOS Medecins, the home visit service. Five minutes of the Dr’s time and 58 euros later I was left none the wiser. There was no swelling, no sign of a dislocated shoulder, she could move her hand but wouldn’t. Doc’s reponse was: ‘it’s probably nothing, but if she’s still acting like this in the morning, use this prescription to get her x-rayed.’

Morning came, with Tadpole still refusing to use her right arm and crying when touched, so off we went to the laboratoire handily located in my street. I had to stand over the Tadpole and attempt to pin her down to the table while she was being x-rayed, so I’ve had a healthy dose of radiation today. It was not a very successful exercise all in all, as with only two hands it was virtually impossible to hold arms, bucking and wriggling body and head all still at once. Add to this to a soundtrack of piercing screams. 200 or so euros later (no bill as yet), radiologist said he couldn’t see anything broken, but if she was still refusing to move her arm on Monday, we should go back for more fun and games.

Is it not possible to get a straight answer from someone in the medical profession these days? Are they so worried we’ll sue if they make a mistake or miss something that they can never commit themselves? Or do they just see anxious new mothers as big fat cash cows to be milked until they run dry?

And if the Tadpole is fine, what on earth is she playing at? I’m starting to wonder if she could be devious enough to realise that if she keeps up her wounded soldier routine she’ll carry on getting unlimited Teletubbies and all her favourite foods…

When buying a naughty breakfast snack this morning at the kiosk below my office, the lady serving me (in her 40’s, liberally made-up, raucous voice of a forty a day galloise smoker) called me ‘ma biche’, as usual. Literally: doe (a deer, a female deer…); but basically it’s like calling someone ‘pet’ in English.

And so I got to thinking about other common but rather odd terms of endearment in the French language.

My favourite has got to be ‘ma puce’, which translates as ‘my flea’. I don’t know about you, but if I could choose any member of the animal kingdom to describe someone I was rather fond of, a flea would not have been my first choice. Fleas are not cute, and definitely not cuddly. But I grant that the word sounds quite nice. Maybe that’s all it is.

If I had to choose a plant, or indeed a vegetable, to describe someone dear to me, likewise I doubt ‘my (little) cabbage’ would spring to mind, but in France ‘mon chou’ is another common affectionate name.

French ‘Mother in Law’ (because you don’t have to be married to have a MIL) calls the Tadpole ‘ma mie’, which is not a little confusing, as she calls herself ‘mamie’ (grandma)… If you were paying attention, you will recall that mie is the soft middle bit of a baguette, which the Frog scoops out and leaves in compressed balls on the dinner table.

What does the Frog call me?

That would be telling…

NB: Incidentally, the Frog will be forced to read all the comments in the ‘old maid’ post, plus his email (thanks Vit!) and I will keep you informed if there are any developments. I’m trying to persuade him to do a guest post at some point, but he says he wants me to build up some more vilainous traits in his character first. I’m not sure why.

Mr Frog won’t marry me.

Until recently, this didn’t bother me at all. I have long thought that marriage was not for me. I don’t practise any religion. I’m sad to say that I consider myself a bit old for a white dress, and neither of us comes from a wealthy family, so we would be the ones footing the bill. Spending cash on a wedding comes low on my list of priorities. More importantly though, I’ve just never thought it necessary. We are happy as we are, and have been for almost nine years, and I couldn’t really see how a ring on my finger would change anything.

However, my point of view has changed with the advent of the Tadpole. For admittedly rather unromantic reasons.

France, patriarchal society that it is, has still not got around to passing the law which was supposed to give unmarried couples the right to give their child both their surnames. It was supposed to come into force back in September 2003, but was quietly shelved and will allegedly resurface in 2005. Unless it’s postponed again. So the Tadpole has her father’s surname only. I feel a pang of jealousy every time I see it written down: it is a name that they share and which I do not.

Incidentally, whenever I travel alone with her, I take her British passport. As our surnames don’t match, if she was using her French ID card I could be asked to prove that I am her mother, and even be asked for a legal document in which her father gives me permission to take her out of the country! When she’s travelling as a Brit however, I could be a child smuggler for all French customs care, and am waved straight through.

My other arguments in favour of marriage include the fact that I’d like to get dual British/French nationality in order to be able to vote here, as French politicians’ actions tend to have a direct bearing on my life. I’d also like to get my hands on all Mr Frog’s cash and his share of our flat (when we buy one), should anything happen to him, and vice versa. Even his pension if we make it that far. As it stands, despite the small detail of having had a child together, I have as much right to inherit his stuff as a flatmate would (i.e. zero). Granted, Tadpole would inherit, but I suspect that would make for complications if she were a minor at the time.

So, I’ve changed my mind. Not because I have suddenly become pro-marriage, but because sadly the French legal system does not move with the times (there are just as many unmarried couples with children as there are married ones these days) and relegates me to the position of second class citizen.

Mr Frog, however, remains unmoved by my myriad pragmatic arguments. If you want to have a go at convincing him on my behalf, be my guest:

Monsieur Frog@gmail.com

I had some guests over from England this weekend. As usual, deciding what/where to eat became a thorny issue. France being renowned for its gastronomic delights, you’d be forgiven for thinking that it should be easy to keep guests fed and watered. Not so in the case of most of my guests I’m afraid.

Take this weekend, for example. Our visitors were down to earth Yorkshire folk who like plain cooking: nothing spicy, no garlic, meat burned to a crisp. The type of people who when they go on holiday prefer to play it safe by eating at restaurants serving only English food. Oh, and they don’t like cheese. Sacrilege in a country producing over 350 different regional cheeses…

After much agonising over a choice of venue, we went to a wine bar I like at Châtelet (only to discover my guests could only tolerate lager) and I instructed the waiter to please cremate their steaks until they were black and not a single drop of blood could conceivably be wrung out of them. I winked conspiratorially and asked him to apologise to the chef, as I’m sure this was against everything he stood for. For once my request was taken seriously: the meat was still pink, but I didn’t have to send it back to the kitchen for extra cooking. I held back (with difficulty) from ordering an assortment of cheeses for myself with a glass of red. I suspected the aroma might offend.

My sisters and several of my friends in the UK are, quite unhelpfully, vegetarians. A dirty word as far as most French people are concerned. My own brief flirtation with vegetarianism in my teens ended during a visit to a French pen friend. There are a few whole food/organic/veggie type cafés in Paris, but most French restaurants don’t have a single vegetarian option on the menu. I took one veggie friend to a lovely bistrot in my neighbourhood only to discover that they wouldn’t even cook her an omelette. She ended up eating some boiled vegetables in stock - all the while eyeing up fellow diners’ plates nervously. At the next table someone had ordered a steak tartare (raw minced steak with raw egg poured over it) and even my fish arrived with its head on and bulbous staring eyes, which didn’t help matters.

So on the whole I tend to dread taking Brits out to dinner. Can you blame me?

petite anglaise wrote this post whilst polishing off one packet of Walkers roast lamb and mint sauce flavoured crisps, followed by one packet of Walkers roast beef and yorkshire pudding flavour crisps. Bliss.

“Ooh, isn’t he a looker….he’ll be popular with the ladies one day…”

“Are you eying up my daughter…?”

The above are comments made by people in the street about/to the Tadpole. Who is, incidentally, a girl.

First of all, I’m not convinced that pushing a pushchair with a child in it should give complete strangers a licence to talk to me and invade our personal space. I cringe in particular when old ladies with hairy chins start pawing the Tadpole and asking if they can give her a kiss. If I’m exercising my right as a working mum to be tired and bad-tempered, the last thing I need is to have to make inane conversation in the supermarket queue with some grotesquely made-up old dear.

But now the fact that Tadpole is constantly mistaken for a boy is starting to really get on my nerves. At first I told myself that she was being referred to as il because baby in French it is le bébé, regardless of the gender of the child. Now, after the hundredth comment about my handsome son, I see that this was wishful thinking.

Granted, the Tadpole has approximately the same amount of hair as the Frog (i.e. not a great deal, the applicable word in French being dégarni). I also happen to think that it is infinitely more practical for a toddler to be dressed in trousers when she is going to be falling over fairly often and playing in the sandpit. And I readily admit to favouring the colour blue over the colour pink.

But the Tadpole’s clothes still have flower and butterfly motifs on them, and she wears T-bar shoes from Clarkes. Do people really think I’d inflict those on a boy? Is it compulsory in this country to dress girls head to toe in pink? Must I use a hair bobble so that what hair she does possess is gathered into a pineapple-like bunch on top of her head? Or maybe slap a sticker on her forehead marked “fille”?

I’m just ever so slightly concerned that she might actually start to think she is a boy.

update:
Below is an artist’s impression of how the Tadpole should be dressed, kindly sent by Vitriolica