petite anglaise

I’ll admit that I’m feeling weird about the act of blogging at the moment.

Although I’m only telling you part of the story, sharing what I want (or feel compelled) to write about, to get out of my system - all the while keeping in mind that I must respect Mr Frog’s absolute, unquestionable right to privacy by refraining from stringing out our dirty laundry across the internet for all to see - I still feel awkward and uncomfortable.

First, there was the flood of comments and emails. Lovely, supportive messages from people who admitted that no, they didn’t know me, but said they *felt* as though they did. People who said that reading “endings” caused them to shed a tear, or to think about me all weekend. That reading about Mr Frog and I affected them as much as hearing about a couple of close, non-virtual friends splitting up. They offered advice, a place to stay, a shoulder to cry on, or even to send me comfort food by airmail. I was touched by the warmth contained in those messages, and surprised at the emotions my words had visibly stirred up, but it remained virtual all the same. And I was painfully conscious that there was far more going on in my life than the little I was telling. So readers were making judgements without being in possession of anything like the full facts. Which didn’t seem fair on Mr Frog, for one.

The stats climbed steeply. I began to fear that I might feel tempted to exploit what was happening in my personal life for its drama potential. Worried that I already had. Alternately racked with guilt and childishly gleeful about the extra hits petite anglaise was getting. (I suspect there were lots of repeat visits, in any case, out of concern, to see if any more news was forthcoming).

Someone once asked me whether having the blog couldn’t potentially influence my actions in some way. My response was something along the lines of: “No way! Read what I write and you’ll see! I write about the mundane, the trivial, the everyday. I don’t lead a fascinating life, or make myself do things in order to have something to write about…”

Now I am wondering. Are my actions skewed by the fact that I know I may write about them afterwards? Is the very fact of having a blog, and one which has always peddled the naked truth, akin to having countless cameras trained on my every move in a ‘Big Brother’ house, making it impossible to behave naturally, impossible to live life the way I would have before, when it wasn’t under this self-inflicted scrutiny?

You may suggest that I should just blog about something else: trot out a light-hearted little piece about Parisian life, or elaborate on that funny thing that Tadpole did this morning. To that I would counter that it is impossible for me to do whimsical and amusing when I am wandering around in a permanent daze, I haven’t slept properly for weeks and am feeling in turn blissfully happy about the glowing new perspectives that the future seems to offer, and melancholy about this page which is being turned and the effect it will have on our little family. There is little space in my head for anything else.

Mr Frog and I are living in limbo: we have decided to separate, but the change this has wrought remains virtual. We wake up side by side every morning, and follow the same daily routine. He comes home; I fix some pasta and ask about his day. The only outwardly visible difference is that the coffee table is littered with A-Z maps and ads for 1 bedroom apartments. Inside our heads, much has changed. But nothing concrete seems to reflect that yet.

You may suggest that I stop blogging for a while. I won’t like it if you do, and I don’t actually know whether I can. It is a powerful addiction and I don’t know that I want to kick the habit at this point in time.

I feel weird. But bear with me. I’m sure it will pass.

For today’s post, kindly follow me.

And my I point out at this juncture that I categorically do not wear red nail varnish.

Tadpole has started mothering Mr Frog and I.

“Mon petit canard,” she says tenderly, while pinching both my cheeks until my eyes water. I gather that this is meant to be an affectionate gesture. Note to self: must cut her fingernails tonight after her bath.

“Allez, mange!” she orders, as I try to work up some enthusiasm for my breakfast cereal, despite it having the consistency of cardboard in my dry mouth.

“Assieds-toi là , ma puce,” she instructs in a bossy tone, before proceeding to show me the picture she has been busily scribbling on. It’s actually quite a disturbing sight, when I examine it more closely. The drawing she had begged for yesterday, with a mummy, a daddy, two little girls, a pig, a spider and an octopus, now has all the faces blackened out. I decide not to let myself dwell on any possible pseudo-psycho explanations for this and instead concentrate on complimenting the neatness of her colouring in.

I know this is just a phase that she is going through, where she is showing Mr Frog and I the same sollicitude and affection that she showers on her favourite dolly. I am told she also takes great delight in mothering the childminder’s youngest charge at the moment, helping out at bottle time, asking her what the matter is when she cries. All seemingly perfectly natural.

But at the same time, I wonder whether, despite all our efforts to put on a happy, friendly front during this awkward time while we carry on living together, until Mr Frog finds a place to live nearby, she is still picking up on the fact that something is going on. Sensing that we both need a few extra cuddes and kisses. Attuned to the emotions we are taking care to rein in when in her presence.

This morning was downright spooky. As I was about to leave for work, Mr Frog being on Tadpole dropping off duty, I bent down low to receive my goodbye kiss. Mr Frog was on his knees in the hallway, cramming things into his bag.

Tadpole grabbed both of us firmly by the arm and pulled us together.

“Donne bisou à Daddy,” she commanded, her eyes very large and serious.

I kissed him lightly on the cheek, noting that I was not the only one with tears in my eyes.

I wish I knew how to behave.

If Mr Frog had shouted, or cried, or lost his temper, stormed out and slammed the door behind him, I would have known how to react to that. I expected fireworks and melodrama. I felt I deserved them, somehow. Here was I, stammering in a low, guilt-ridden voice that I had finally found the strength to walk away from this relationship which was not what I wanted any more. Where, in my opinion, it was plain to see that we were both deeply unhappy. Here was I confessing that I hadn’t come to take this decision without any outside help: there was another person involved. It’s not that I wanted to inflict pain. Far from it. But some kind of reaction would have been nice.

Nothing.

Not a moan or a whimper on my account. There was genuine anguish as he grappled with the idea of having to live apart from our daughter, and possibly see her less often. There were demands for reassurance that his role as daddy would never be challenged. This was the outcome I had told myself I expected, that I had hoped for, as I rehearsed my lines earlier that evening, but I found the total absence of any emotional response in relation to me galling nonetheless.

“What about me?” I wanted to yell. “You’re losing me too. Me! Do I really leave you completely indifferent?”

I suppose we have both known for a long time that we were now together by default, even if we rarely dared to admit or acknowledge it, even to ourselves. For the sake of our Tadpole. Out of inertia. Or fear of change and upheaval. So where the jagged emotions should have been, there was now just a gaping void.

Part of me feels cheated. After working myself up to this finale over a week of sleepless nights and adrenaline-fuelled days, it was a resounding anti-climax. I wanted to be wept over bitterly or gallantly fought for. Mourned, or regretted just a little.

So that I felt like I was someone worth having in the first place.

When you walked into the bar, wearing your cuddly blue duffle coat, I found you irresistibly cute.

I remember you kissing me gently on the cheek after our second meeting and bundling me into a taxi.

I remember going to watch some weird film at a cinema near where you lived, so I had a pretext to stop by.

I remember listening to Portishead, lying on the bed in your tiny chambre de bonne, with its sloping floor and pre-war electrics, seeing only your grey blue eyes.

I remember the joy written all over your face when I told you we were having a baby.

I remember holding on to you for dear life whilst I retreated far inside myself to deal with the pain of labour.

I remember you giving Tadpole her first bath by my side, while I looked on, helpless, unable to move.

I remember standing by her bed, by your side, many times, marvelling at our beautiful daughter as she slept, wondering how we came to create such a perfect creature.

********************

I feel dazed yet strangely calm inside. Tearful at times, but mostly just numb.

I am profoundly sad and sorry that it has come to this.

But I know, without the merest shadow of a doubt, that it is what is right.

The metro doors open with a shudder and the floodgates open. I stand well back to let everyone past, but still manage to get buffeted and elbowed in the ribs. I don’t know what it is about wearing headphones, but with them on I am noticeably clumsier. I gauge distances badly, I tread on toes and am unable to weave in and out of crowds with my customary ease.

Safely inside, I manoeuvre myself into a position where I can grasp the metal pole in the standing area at a comfortable height. The carriage is bursting at the seams; the air is damp and thick. A woman folds herself into the crook of my arm, obscuring my view of the pole and making it difficult to hold on with her weight bearing onto me. Her hair is pulled back into a slick ponytail, and whatever she has used on it that morning causes me to fight back a sneeze.

As the train pulls away into the tunnel, I feel a clammy, insistent pressure against my curled palm and recoil inwardly. Certain types of unsollicited physical contact with strangers make me very uncomfortable, even if it is only the feather-light graze of an unknown hand against mine.

I inch my hand higher up the pole. Undeterred, the hand follows my lead, applying insistent pressure, so that my skin prickles with revulsion. I can’t decide whether to withdraw my hand altogether, relying on the fact that I’m so tightly wedged up against my fellow passengers that I won’t fall over, even if the driver chooses to slam on the brakes, or to steel myself to endure the surreptitious hand mauling all the way to my destination.

I choose a third option. I don’t have much in the way of fingernails. But just enough. I hear a sharp intake of breath and feel the hand fall away.

Petite 1 - anonymous hand fetishist 0

************

Mr Frog and I were out shopping. We had just started working and the novelty of having a ‘proper job’ after all those relatively poverty stricken student years had not yet worn off. The metro was moderately crowded and we were standing at opposite sides of the pole, discussing where to take a break from our orgy of spending for a bite to eat.

An attractive young couple shared ‘our’ pole, along with two or three other strangers of various ages whose faces are just a blur in my memory. I don’t recall what the couple were wearing, or the colour of their hair, only that their eyes were locked together: they were wrapped up in each other, oblivious to the rest of the world.

Without taking his eyes of her for a second, the man leaned forward to kiss her hand gently, but deliberately. Her pupils widened in shock. The hand was pulled away, sharply; an older woman, standing nearby, gasped and flushed a deep shade of crimson.

It took us a second or two to register what had happened.

I have never partaken of a meme before - at first, because I didn’t really know what one was, and later, because I took the snobbish view that memes constituted lazy blogging. However, I’ve climbed off my high horse today because the prospect of being interviewed by blog goddess Zinnia was just too tempting. If you haven’t already discovered the beautifully written ‘Real E Fun’ (and I am mortified to say that I didn’t spot that obvious anagram for the longest time), then I strongly advise you to do so. In fact, it’s an order.

So, here goes:

Your writing, on your blogs, is excellent and enjoyable. Do you do any other kind of writing, and if not, would you like to?

Coming from Zinnia, that is a compliment indeed. Thank you. I’m blushing and I don’t quite know where to put myself.

Before I started writing as petite anglaise, the last person who complimented me on my prose was Mr Jones, my G.C.S.E. English teacher, back in 1989. I went on to choose languages and history over English, and never once looked back. As a career PA (by accident more than by design), I actually spend most days typing other people’s words, and no, sadly I don’t do any other kind of writing.

Looking back over my archives, I feel the discipline of writing every day, purely for my own pleasure, has taught me an awful lot. I’m just getting into my stride, but I really enjoy doing it. And, well, if another opportunity were to present itself, who knows?

If, for some reason, you (and Mr Frog and Tadpole) could no longer live in France or England, where would you choose to move your family to and why?

That is horribly tough. If language were no barrier, I think of the places I have visited so far then Italy appealed the most. But I abhor being somewhere I can only communicate with a phrasebook in my hand. The other language I studied at university was German, but my experiences there - through no fault of the German people, may I add - have put me off somewhat. The only other place I have visited where I immediately felt at home was New York, but I don’t much fancy living in a broom cupboard.

If I had to run for the hills, because, say, the copy of my criminal record (requested in conjunction with my naturalisation application) arrives in the post tommorow with WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE written all over it, then I’d plump for New Zealand. I’ve never been, but it has always appealed to me. Even pre-LOTR.

What is your ideal job?

If I was brave and financially secure enough to make a career change tomorrow it would be a toss up between going back to school to study creative writing, web design or translation. There was a point in my life several years ago where I was torn between doing a translation MA and a bilingual secretarial diploma. I went for the most affordable option, and I do harbour some regrets.

You write about many things, but very little about your friends. Are friends important to you?

A terrifyingly perceptive question. I think there are a number of factors at play here.

First of all, I don’t think I should write too much about people outside my immediate circle who don’t know about the blog. I tell my stories, and talk about my feelings, not other people’s.

Secondly, my friends from home and university are all in the UK, and we are all less mobile these days, with our young children in tow. The result being that I don’t see them as often as I would like. But I love the way that even if we see each other once in a blue moon, it is like we were never apart.

Thirdly, I have found that expat life in Paris means that you inevitably make friends only for them to move on, because they were only passing through in the first place. I don’t have a single really good friend in this city right now, I’m sad to say. Lots of potentially good friends, but job and parenting commitments mean that I rarely get chance to follow things through. I’m now trying actively to do something about this - with blog meet ups for example - because friendship is important to me and my life would be far richer for it.

If you could be someone else for a day, who would you be and what would you do?

I’d like to see life through Tadpole’s eyes. To potter about drawing pictures, singing songs and feeling loved, unconditionally, without a single care in the world. Just for a day.

Knowing my luck, I’d pick the wrong day and end up teething and throwing tantrums.

If you would like to be ‘interviewed’ by me, then please let me know in the comments box. First five to respond OUI will have the dubious honour.

This petite anglaise is going to be a very busy lass indeed if people keep organising bloggers’ soirées left right and centre. And the babysitter will be able to buy herself a new posh handbag on the proceeds, no doubt.

I’ll definitely be going to Paris blogue-t-il on 31 May - especially as I hear there will be an opportunity to sample Clotilde and Scally’s wares. Arriving fashionably late will not be an option as I’m sure the nibbles won’t faire long feu. I found out that do today, after having sent an email out last night to get thoughts on possible dates for another expat drinking do.

Saturday 25th June is what we came up with, and it sounds as though there are plans afoot for a daytime picnic, as well as an evening meetup. Feel free to come to either or both if you are an expat of any nationality or flavour and you blog. Drop me a gmail or post a comment here to be included on the mailing list. And if you have suggestions for a cosy evening venue, pipe up!

Oh, and as well as being a party girl, according to google I’m a bad mummy. Try it at home. Type “bad mummy” in google.com or .fr or whatever and then hit “I’m feeling lucky”. Not sure how long I will retain this dubious honour but it was funny while it lasted.

W, the IT manager from the London mothership calls just as I arrive at my desk, almost on time. I still have my mac on, and fumble to switch off the ipod, still attached to one ear, while cradling the phone between my head and shoulder. Male readers: this is called multi-tasking. Women are very good at this, especially secretaries like myself. If you don’t believe me, ask Paris Hilton.

“I’ve got a problem [petite], there’s a videoconference scheduled to start in five minutes and there’s no-one around at your end to set up the kit. Can you do it for me?”

“Yep, sure, if you can talk me through it. I’ll transfer you to the meeting room phone, hang on a tick…”

Coat hastily deposited on chair, bag hurled under desk, I race through the office to the meeting room to intercept the call. Not quite the start to the day I had in mind. My version involved a double espresso, a wedge of brioche and a leisurely trawl through the online Guardian. But it was not to be.

The person taking part in the meeting from Paris enters the room just as I am heaving the large, flat screen monitor onto the table.

“Ah, [petite], so you’re setting this up for me, are you?” he says, somehow managing to convey in those few words that he doesn’t believe for a second that I’ll be able to do it. Which is preposterous, but makes me flustered all the same.

He and my boss are like chalk and cheese. My boss gets rather stressed and is occasionally moody, but I get on well with him because he treats me like an equal. He knows full well that I am hopelessly overqualified to type his dictations, but I think at the end of the day he just wants someone around that he respects and can hold an intelligent conversation with. That’s my theory anyway.

This other boss is very old school. He wears braces and sock suspenders (although I don’t have any firsthand experience of those), stays in gentlemen’s clubs when in London, and calls secretaries ‘typists’. When I speak to him, I can’t prevent myself from mirroring his plummy Oxbridge accent. His presence at this precise moment is both unhelpful and potentially embarrassing. Not least because W is on the speakerphone, and is an outrageous flirt. I pray that he has heard Old School Boss arriving and busy myself with connecting cables.

“Right love, see the white cable with the socket like a telephone? Is that connected?”

I roll my eyes. “The RJ45 is in, yes.”

“Lovely. You’re not just a pretty face, are you?”

Now I’m blushing. Webcam in place, remote control in hand, I press the buttons on the front of the monitor, somewhat randomly, until it fires up. The menu comes into focus on the screen, a large, empty square where the London boardroom will appear. There is a smaller inset box where Paris will show up, so that we know what image is being transmitted to London. So far so good.

I press the button to “connect”, as instructed, and an image appears.

“Holy shit!” I yelp, before I can censor myself.

On the monitor, I can clearly see W in London, hair receding, looking quite like Minty from Eastenders. I’ve never seen his face before. I missed the office party held in London a couple of years ago - as I was in labour at the time - so I mostly have to make do with imagining the person I am talking to.

But seeing W’s face is not the reason for my outburst.

The image of Paris, which is simultaneously being broadcast onto a large screen in our London boardroom, is of me. Or, to be precise, is of my cleavage. Clearly I hadn’t got the webcam angle quite right, and there I am, in my full glory, leaning across the table with the remote, my V-necked jumper revealing a little more than I would have liked.

So, a full five minutes after arriving at work, I have managed not only to show my breasts to “Minty”, but also to swear in front of Old School Boss. I can’t imagine how things could get any worse. Except they can and do. Because as W adjusts the position of the London webcam and twiddles with the focus, a sea of smurking faces swim into view. It would appear that their meeting room was already occupied too, with a full complement of London board members. I flee, face an attractive beetroot colour, unable to look Old School Boss in the eye.

I think I may have just become superstitious. I won’t be working on Friday 13th again in a hurry.

I went to see ‘I am Kloot’ at the Nouveau Casino last night, as promised. The choice of venue was perfect, the sound crystal clear so that every single poignant word of every song hung shimmering in the smoky air before us, the relatively small size of the salle adding to the intimacy of the performance. I’m only sorry that due to my overindulgence after the concert, my words are not flowing as they should and fail to do ‘Kloot’ justice.

I couldn’t help but wonder, as I listened to the melancholy acoustic ballad Astray, how it must feel to know that you are the subject of a song, the muse at the source of the songwriter’s inspiration. I sneaked a peek at the singer’s girlfriend as he sang “and still the bold raging flame of your heart is making me stay” and felt a lump in my throat.

Thank you guys. I loved every minute of it.

I took a shortcut behind the Galeries Lafayette department store last Thursday, preferring the quiet, narrow street to the bustling boulevard Haussman.

At first I failed to notice the police van, parked a few metres ahead and surrounded by a group of officers in uniform who were surveying the street with arms folded across their chests, their boredom almost palpable. Deep in thought about where I fancied grabbing a quick snack, it didn’t even register that there were metal barricades blocking the road, denying access to traffic. Nor did I see that over a hundred cellophane wrapped bunches of flowers were attached to the barricades. It was only when I became aware of a dozen people - businessmen, tourists, shoppers, an African woman in a traditional batik print dress - standing motionless on the pavement directly in front of me, blocking my way, that I followed their collective gaze to the building on the other side of the street.

I realised with a jolt that I was standing in front of n° 76 rue de Provence, staring wide-eyed at the burnt shell of the Hotel Paris Opéra.

It’s stale news, of course, that 22 people, including 10 children, were killed in a fire which gutted the hotel in the early hours of 15 April. I had read articles about it, which stirred up feelings of horror and indignation, and was vaguely aware that the tragedy had occurred not far from where I go to work every day on the avenue de l’Opéra. I don’t recall any of the articles actually mentioning the address, and I certainly didn’t expect to chance upon the charred remains on a sunny, carefree bank holiday shopping spree.

And now, like the onlookers around me, I couldn’t take my eyes off the blackened windows. Windows from which people had jumped. Rue de Provence was enveloped by an eerie silence. When I finally managed to tear myself away, I cut short my afternoon and took the metro home. I had a lump in my throat, a heaviness in my ribcage. Death had cast a long shadow over my afternoon and I was no longer in the mood for frivolity.

The six-storey, 1 star Hôtel Paris Opéra was not a tourist hotel. It was a temporary - but often long-term temporary - home to an assortment of families eking out precarious existences in the city of light. Some were legal immigrants waiting for better accommodation to become available, some asylum seekers, and others, despite living in France for ten years or more, had been unable to obtain a residence permit or working papers, and were paid cash to clean the apartments of wealthy Parisians, or care for their pampered children. Home was a tiny bedroom, with one shared toilet per floor. Cooking facilities: a single microwave. Many of the rooms were rented by the Mairie de Paris and the samu social (social services) on behalf of families in need. The going rate for a 6 metres squared bedroom: € 500 per month.

The death toll, in this, the worst blaze that Paris has seen in thirty years, was unnecessarily high - according to firefighters - because people panicked and jumped from upper floor windows. Or threw their children out, in sheer desperation. Seven people died from their injuries this way. As is the case in most Parisian buildlings, there was only one staircase and lift shaft, so as the fire was rushing vertically upwards, the windows were the only escape route.

One article I read in Libération spoke of a rideau de fumée, a curtain of smoke which had been drawn around the tragedy, so that the shortcomings of government policies in the sensitive areas of emergency housing and asylum applications would not come under close scrutiny. Much has since been made of the fact that the fire was caused by a woman who had unknowlingly overturned a candle in a first floor room just before leaving the building. Her confession has been obtained: she trashed the room used for trysts with her lover, following a heated argument. A convenient state of affairs, laying the blame at one individual’s door, and handing the criminal investigation over to the Minister of Justice. The Minister responsible for immigration must have breathed a huge sigh of relief.

That way, people won’t dwell too much on the plight of those families, living in cramped conditions right under our noses, and not 10 metres from the temple of luxury that is the Galeries Lafayette. That way we won’t wonder how it is possible for children to be born in Paris, sent to school here, but still have to live in squalid hotels with their parents in complete illegality. That way we won’t think to question why government bodies support the owners of establishments like the Hôtel Paris Opéra, who are in the lucrative business of exploiting misery and desperation.

Move along. There’s nothing to see here.

My secondary school French teacher could barely contain his excitement when we got to the section in our textbook devoted to French hypermarkets. He hopped from one foot to the other and gesticulated enthusiastically as he extolled their virtues. They were vast! You could buy a TV along with your weekly grocery shop! They constituted a shopping revolution! All of his sentences ended with exclamation marks!

Well, I moved to France ten years ago and I must confess that thus far, I haven’t manage to work out just what it was that my teacher was getting himself worked up about. I think that the most sensible explanation for this - the one not involving my teacher being in need of sedation - is that in the meantime, Tesco and Sainsbury’s superstores in the UK caught up with French hypermarchés, overtook them, and raced on ahead, turning only to make a triumphant bras d’honneur in the direction of the rapidly receding Auchans and Leclercs.

I can’t claim to have frequented many proper hypermarkets, as living in central Paris and not owning a car, I have always been more likely to shop in the Franprix/Leader Price that seem to be located every 500m or so throughout the city. The choice of products is relatively limited, but they do sell all the basics we need, and the prices are somewhat more reasonable than slightly more upmarket Monoprix. But when we visit the Evil In-Laws (as we did this weekend), and it rains (as it always seems to, making the promises we have made to Tapole about being able to play in the garden/on the slide/in the paddling pool/on her bike null and void) I can usually find a reason to visit Géant Casino at Chateaufarine for some much needed respite from the Evils.

Chateaufarine is one of those soulless industrial estates which exist the world over, populated with sweaty sports shops and ‘bargain’ clothes stores, housed in vast hangars, interconnected by a labyrinth of roads and a roundabout every 20 paces. Invented intially as a traffic jam free alternative to town centre shopping, these trading estates are now a victim of their own success: the enormous carparks are always full, the access roads are choked with stationary traffic. I curse myself every single time for forgetting just how depressing the Chateaufarine experience is.

Just because Géant Casino is located in a gigantic hangar, doesn’t, in this case, mean that I stand a better chance of finding just what it is I’m looking for. Vast does mean that the yoghurt aisle is ten times longer than the one in Franprix. But all this really means is that the same flavours are repeated over and over for again for the length of an Olympic sized swimming pool, the only difference being that they have different brand names on. Shopping becomes exercise. As far as I can see, there doesn’t seem to be any more real choice than in Franprix. On this occasion, there was no Thai green curry paste to be had for love nor money.

It also proved to be nigh on impossible to buy a regular-sized pack of nappies for Tadpole’s use at the In Laws’ house. The optimist in me shied away from buying a 92-pack of huggies, just in case we are successful in potty training her before the end of 2005. But the only packs on sale were of the “mega multi family value bulk buy” variety. If this principle is applied to the rest of the merchandise on offer, these places must be every singleton’s nightmare.

And last of all, I could not help but compare the in-house store fidelité cards, a relatively recent phenomenon in France, with their equivalent in the UK. My parents, through astute use of their Tesco credit card, recently managed to wangle themselves a week away in the Channel Islands, all flights and accommodation courtesy of Tesco Plc. When I consult the balance of my s’miles points (Monoprix, Galéries Lafayette and Géant Casino), they serve only as a grim reminder of the indecent amount of money I must have spent shopping there to get them, only to be rewarded with a free cinema ticket for every 1,000 points accummulated. If that is all my fidelity is worth, I shall be sleeping around from now on.

The only upside to visiting the souless trading estate is that I immediately felt like a fashion goddess, conspicuous in my understated, but oh so terribly chic, Parisian clothes. Now far be it for me to say that country folk have inferior dress sense, but if my options were limited to the best that Kiabi, Pimkie and La Halle aux Vêtements had to offer… [sentence best left unfinished so as not to cause offence to rural readers]

Anyway, I would like to point out at this juncture that I wasn’t the one muttering “pramface!” and “chav!” at fellow shoppers. I didn’t know whether to chastise Mr Frog for making the risky assumption that no-one in Chateaufarine speaks fluent English and regularly reads popbitch, or to be proud of his impressive knowledge of English vernacular.

Perhaps Mr Frog should be awarded honorary British nationality?

I withdraw my foot from my left shoe with a sharp intake of breath and massage my big toe, before tipping up the shoe to see what the culprit was this time. A sharp, triangular building block falls out.

I slowly pull the washing out of the machine, looking for the offending item which has rattled and clanged insistently for the entire duration of the hot cycle. Behold, a spoon, placed in the drum, or the washing basket, by tiny hands when I wasn’t looking.

I ease my tired limbs between the bedsheets, and then sit up, startled. After the removal of one plastic toy telephone, one TV remote control and one rag doll, the coast is clear. Except for the Miffy book lurking under my pillow, which I only discover the following morning.

When Mr Frog and I decided to have Tadpole, I knew that this meant kissing my pristine, adult apartment goodbye. I’m not sure, however, that I was prepared for the extent of the proliferation of child-related items, or indeed the damage that one child can inflict.

Toys overflow from a box in the living room and lurk under chairs and tables. A ducks, a (toy) frog and an octupus line the bathtub, eyeing me suspiciously whenever I take a soak. Soft toys are regularly to be found hidden in amongst the pots, pans and tupperware in the kitchen cupboards. Magnetic shapes adorn the metal stove in the living room fireplace (oh yes, we have original features which would drive Kirstie and Phil wild), and are stuck randomly on radiators and domestic appliances in ever changing configurations. Every time I race to record something on the video, first of all I must extract a pingu or postman pat cassette.

In addition to toys, we also have a plethora of Tadpole-proofing paraphernalia. A gate across the entrance to the kitchen, so that access can be denied if necessary, a measure taken upon discovering an over-ripe goats cheese in my underwear drawer, after a weekend away. Plastic covers, to prevent moist, enquiring fingers from entering the two-pin, no-earth electric sockets which abound in our apartment. We stopped short of putting locks on every cupboard door, however, and refused to be bullied into purchasing the foam helmet advocated by our puériculture catalogue. Oh, they’re clever alright, these marketing people, playing on your inevitable insecurities as a new parent to sell you expensive and completely unnecessary safety gear.

Being of a houseproud, obsessively tidy nature - which may or may not be related to being born when the sun was in Virgo - I have also had a hard time coming to terms with the damage inflicted on our existing possessions. The Ikea standing lamp with its tall, white paper lampshade, which now dangles bedraggled and forlorn in a corner of the room, because, guess what, Ikea don’t sell those lampshades separately. The deep purple sofa cover, washed to within an inch of its life, now shrunk and faded, and despite my best efforts still bearing traces of some of Tadpole’s first puréed meals. Aside from the furniture, the apartment itself has not escaped unscathed. The wood floors, which show every single drop of spilled liquid as a pale stain, are looking far from their best, as I rarely have the time or inclination to wax. Greasy fingermarks abound on the white painted walls.

Now, I can learn to live with all of these things. I have, in fact. I am even mellowing to the point where I actually like all of Tadpole’s colourful clutter.

But, Mr Frog, putting Tadpole’s music on my Ipod - even if, in your defence, you claim it might come in useful when we are trapped in a car with a fractious toddler someday - is taking things ONE STEP TOO FAR.

When I am “shuffling” in the metro of a morning, I do not expect The Killers to be followed hot on the heels by “une souris verte” at full volume. Some things, some precious little things, are SACRED, and as such, need to be declared TADPOLE FREE ZONES.

Is that clear?

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Which leads me neatly on to a shameless plug. If you go down to the Fnac Digitale tomorrow, fellow ipod owners, you will see a range of products called i-doll, the brainchild of two good friends of mine. Can I suggest you take a look at the gorgeous array of Ipod garments on offer and maybe even purchase one or three?

How Mr Frog would spend a bank holiday, alone, in Paris

MORNING

Peek through eyelids surreptitiously as frantic petite scampers around apartment readying travel bag and uncooperative Tadpole for weekend away. Groan at the merest suggestion of curtains being opened to facilitate packing of colour-coordinated clothing and hasty application of make up. Upon hearing front door slam closed, roll over and go back to sleep.

EARLY AFTERNOON

Ease self out of bed and into warm embrace of bathtub. Emerge only when skin has wrinkled to pruneau-like consistency. Dress. Head to neighbourhood McDo for takeout lunch, ignoring well-stocked fridge and kitchen cupboards.

Hop on Vespa and head H&M Opéra-wards, whereupon purchase ridiculous item such as WHITE trousers. Knowing full well that good lady non-wife will inevitably demand return of aforementioned garment on grounds of impractical nature and own manly aversion to involvement with washing machine/dryer/iron. (Real reason, not stated, is dubious nature of fashion decision. Previous shopping trips without spousal guidance have yielded: string vest (green) and cowboy hat. Case closed.)

Meet friend for coffee, make most of freedom by smoking entire packet of cigarettes.

EVENING

No plans as allergic to making arrangements in advance. Dinner courtesty of Allo Pizza. Play GTA: Vice City whilst eating crisps and multi-pack of Haribo assorted sweets. Fall asleep on sofa while watching Fight Club/The Godfather. Again.
 
 
How petite is spending a bank holiday, alone, in Paris

MORNING

Leap into action at sound of alarm. Feed, water and clothe Tadpole and put finishing touches to weekend bag. Bark various orders at Mr Frog emerging from bathroom only minutes before taxi due to arrive.

As front door slams, instead of taking book to bed as initially planned, experience sudden and overwhelming desire to clean child-free apartment from top to bottom, including waxing wood floors, reorganising wardrobe, polishing every single pair of shoes and scrubbing at limescale in bathtub with stiff brush.

10 AM

Exhausted.

Water plants on balcony. Cold gust of wind serves as belated reminder that am wearing only jeans and bra at this juncture. Beat hasty retreat indoors. Wash hair. Write blog post.

AFTERNOON

The plan: make most of rare commodity that is “me-time” for much-needed bout of retail therapy (if shops open at Etienne Marcel). Which will happen, unless succumb to evil voices in head suggesting today would be really good day to clean windows/wipe down walls/wash pushchair cover/launder bedclothes.

Note to self: perhaps Ipod will drown out voices?

EVENING

Chain self to computer, in attempt to finish off website for family business (work in progress since November 2004). Proof read text, sniggering like teenager at every mention of word ‘erection’. Break for ironing intermission.
 
 

Why oh why it is that even though I constantly lament not having any time to myself and a sleep deficit which must amount to about two months full-time bedrest, I feel compelled to spend a precious bank holiday Thursday (one of the rare jours fériés not falling on a weekend or abolished by government in 2005) doing chores?

This girl needs saving. From herself.

The children’s library on the rue Fessart is accessible only via a steep flight of stairs. Predictably there is no sign of a lift. The adult’s library is, I note, located in an identical room on the ground floor. Sighing, I free the Tadpole from her pushchair harness (which she insists on calling a “strap-on”). By the time I have got the pushchair folded, she is already half-way up the stairs and my heart is in my mouth as she turns to laugh at me, teetering precariously on the edge of a step. I race to catch her up, wishing that simple canine commands like “sit” or “stay” or “heel” would have some effect on my wilfully independent daughter. As it is, I say “stand still” and she hears “run for the hills!”

The children’s library is not vast, but there is a well-stocked and thoughtfully enclosed toddler’s section, furnished with chairs for little people and slightly grubby looking animal cushions strewn about the floor.

I approach the young man seated at the front desk, who has his nose in a book, and takes far too long to actually look up and say hello, without the merest hint of a smile. He has a something unsightly dangling from his left nostril, and his long hair, which looks as though he combed olive oil through it this morning, is gathered into a ragged pony tail.

I explain that I would like to enrol Tadpole in the library, and he sullenly hands me a form. How I hate myself for smiling back at him. Regardless of whether or not my naturalisation application is successful, I know that I will never manage the unsmiling, aloof attitude that most Parisians seem to affect in such situations. My inane grinning and eagerness to chat with complete strangers in shops will forever betray my foreignness and put me at a cultural disadvantage, however French I might manage to sound.

I suppose I should be thankful for small mercies: at least obtaining a library card for Tadpole does not require me to produce my birth certificate, backed with an apostille and accompanied by a certified translation. Or a copy of my criminal record. Tadpole’s ID card suffices, just as the lady had told me over the phone. (I had still brought utility bills and the livret de famille though, just in case. I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe that anything involving the French administration could really be that simple.)

Library card in hand, I plonk myself down on a dusty ladybird cushion and set to examining the books in the ‘foreign’ section, while Tadpole rearranges the furniture energetically, seemingly having missed the point of why we are here and showing no interest whatsoever in the books which surround her. Of the 120 foreign tomes of which the municipal libraries’ internet site boasted, I note that three quarters are in Hanzi or Kanji or some other Asian language, with the covers on back to front. We live a stone’s throw from the Belleville Chinatown, and this library caters to its residents, so I suppose that was only to be expected.

As we are running a little late for our lunchtime rendez-vous with Negrito and his friends, I hastily choose a couple of Maisy books (in French: Mimi la souris) and a book about a busy spider, by the author of ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’. If Mr Frog isn’t home for story time, I will read them in English, which will be useful for practising my off the cuff translation skills, if nothing else.

For the rest of the weekend I am disproportionately pleased with myself for having enrolled Tadpole in the library. I think it is because I have such fond memories of library visits as a child. My mother maintains that she taught me to read before my first sister was born (i.e. shortly before my third birthday) and from that moment on I was unstoppable. I started school a year early, and raced through the reading scheme at breakneck speed.

As there was no way my parents could have financed my fifteen-a-week habit, we came to frequent many libraries over the years. Once I had exhausted the possibilities of the children’s section in our village library, staffed by elderly ladies in cashmere twin sets and irreproachable nasal hygiene, I was allowed to borrow books from the adult section using my mothers library card, even though I was underage. I used my father’s card too. Then we graduated to a bigger library in York itself. At any one time, there would be no less than a dozen library books stacked up next to my bed.

One of the reasons my eyesight is now so poor is that from a very early age (four or five years old I reckon) I used to read in secret after lights out, straining to decipher the words in the orange glow of the streetlamp outside my bedroom window, or leaving my door ajar to catch a sliver of light from the bathroom. If I was under the spell of a favourite book, there was no question of stopping before I had reached the end.

I do hope Tadpole will grow up to be a bookworm too, and not a philistine like Mr Frog.

I’m going back to university.

Only for a weekend, but I’m so very excited about the prospect of going back that I don’t know how I’m going to contain myself until July.

It will be an informal reunion, bringing together a few modern linguists, ‘95 millésime, and anyone else they fancy inviting, and when an email was forwarded to me, I surprised myself with my own enthusiasm. Two hours later I had an alumni number, a room reserved in halls with the rest of the gang, had cajoled my boss into signing my holiday form and booked some flights. Only then did it occur to me to ask Mr Frog if he minded being left alone with Tadpole for three days.

Apparently ten years is about the time when most of us start to hanker after some sort of reunion, so the timing is spot on. The people I am most looking forward to seeing are actually those I have been in semi-regular contact with all along, but I don’t get to spend time with them as often or for as long as I would like, distance and motherhood not permitting. So I can’t wait to reminisce over a few drinks and revisit some of our old haunts. I want to soak up the atmosphere of this place where I spent what I fondly remember as the happiest years of my youth. I want to pretend, just for a couple of days, that I am in my early twenties again. It’s a shame I haven’t hung onto any of my college clothes. It would have been amusing to show up in my blue doc martens with beads strung on the laces. My tastes have evolved a little since my indie, student grant thrift shop days however and many things have been given to the Red Cross (to Mr Frog’s relief).

There will be many other former students present who I literally haven’t see in a decade, since graduation day itself. I’m sure I’ll recognise them all, and they me, but I haven’t the faintest idea who and what they have become.

I will have to perfect a potted resumé of the last ten years. Let me see:

“I taught at the Sorbonne Nouvelle for a couple of years, as a lectrice. Adamant that I wanted to stay on in Paris, but not exactly bitten by the teaching bug, I went back to the UK for a few months and returned armed with a bilingual secretarial diploma (and a London Chamber of Commerce gold medal for best ‘oral’ in the country - which I think is in my underwear drawer somewhere). My glittering PA career has taken me from investment bank to internet startup to luxury goods empire to current position of wicked blog-idleness. I moved in with Mr Frog eight years ago and we have an adorable little Tadpole who will be two years old in June.”

What I will probably do, knowing me, is look shifty and defensive and mutter under my breath that I’m “just a secretary”, brandishing a picture of my daughter as proof that I have done something meaningful with my life. I will have to work on not being visibly overwhelmed with jealousy as I hear about glamorous jobs in the wine trade, in film production or the diplomatic service. Of course, depending on how many drinks I have knocked back in order to steady my nerves, I may just grunt, or content myself with eavesdropping from my vantage point under the table.

I have touched on this subject before. It’s not that I’m ashamed of what I do. Most days I enjoy it, actually. My only goal, upon finishing my education, was to live and breathe French. What I would actually do for a living was by the by. But I can’t quite shake off the guilt I feel about not having ‘fulfilled my potential’ in some way. I was always a swotty, straight-A student, fiercely competitive, constantly striving to be top of the class from pre-school to college. My schoolteachers predicted great things and encouraged me to aim high. But at the end of the day, I realised that being top of the class had been my only real goal; it had been an end in itself, not a means to achieve some higher purpose in the long-term.

Most of the time I don’t give this subject a second thought. But the prospect of meeting all these high achievers has reminded me how much I detest reading Friends Reunited. You remember that girl at school who was more interested in boys than actually doing any work? Who barely scraped through her GCSE’s? Who was spotted at L’s 16th birthday party having sex standing up against the front of the house, and then, later again on the swing in the back garden (with a different partner)?

We predicted that in a couple of years she’d be pushing a pram around Bell Farm council estate, hair pulled back into a Croydon face lift.

She’s a bank manager now.