petite anglaise

Jack was finally born at 41 weeks and 4 days on Monday 2 November, on the night of the full moon.

His birth was spookily similar to Tadpole’s. I found myself in the same salle d’accouchement at the Maternité des Lilas where my daughter had been born six year earlier and, like his big sister, Jack wasn’t all that keen on coming out. As a result, my hoped-for natural birth was soon forgotten as I had to be hooked up to various drips, given an epidural and strapped to a monitor. Finally, at 7.03 pm, just as the midwife was paging the obstetrician and threatening me with forceps, I saw a head of dark hair emerging and the marathon was finally over (contractions had begun a full 24 hours earlier). I sobbed with relief afterwards and swore I would NEVER go through it all again.

Eleven days later we are all well, blissfully happy and revelling in The Boy’s paternity leave. Jack would happily eat all day long, but he compensates by sleeping 4 or 5 hours in a row, twice a night. He pulls the most ridiculous faces when he’s trying to poo. The softest place in the whole world is the portion of his neck just below his little ears.

I’m besotted with him, in short. We all are.

Tadpole wasn’t able to visit us at the hospital (H1N1 has a lot to answer for), but instantly fell in love with her little brother when I brought him home. ‘Mummy,’ she said to me after her first cuddle with baby brother, ‘felicitations for making such a perfect baby.’

I got an email from a reader the other day enquiring after my well-being and suddenly realised I hadn’t blogged in over a month.

The truth of the matter is that I’m fine – indeed, we all are – but the inclination to blog, which has been on the wane for some time, seems to have finally left me, and, this time, I suspect it might be permanent.

When Tadpole says something funny or disturbing – such as yesterday, when we were sharing a bath and she confessed she rather likes the taste of her own crottes de nez – I’m no longer overcome by an overwhelming desire to rush to my keyboard and share her words with the world at large. I tend to update my facebook status instead, and I find that eliciting a few brief responses from my friends usually satisfies any cravings I might have for a spot of banter or virtual interaction.

For a long time I put this changed state of affairs down to the fact that I was writing for a living; I reasoned that it was normal, really, to want to do something other than write in my spare time. But I’ve been on hiatus, bookwise, since the springtime, and the desire to express myself in the form of lengthy blog posts online hasn’t miraculously returned, so it would seem that wasn’t the real explanation, after all.

I read an article a month or so ago about Liz Jones, a newspaper columnist who has made a living out of sharing every aspect of her personal life, showing little or no regard for the feelings or right to privacy of the partners/lovers/neighbours that she uses for material. It left a nasty taste in my mouth. Personal blogging was something I felt the need to do during a short, pivotal period of my life but, as I hope I demonstrated in my memoir, I realised, with hindsight, that particular path was strewn with landmines. I learnt some valuable lessons from the experience and will always be grateful for the doors which opened as a result.

But now I’ve moved on.

When my publisher asked me to pen a host of first person articles to coincide with the launch of ‘French Kissing’, I wasn’t at all keen. None of the pitches I sent, somewhat reluctantly, to various newspapers and magazines were actually commissioned, and while I’m sure this didn’t do sales of the book any good, I felt nothing but relief. By choosing to write a novel, I’d consciously taken a step away from tell-all, first person writing. Admittedly, some of the subject matter might have seemed familiar to regular blog readers – single motherhood, expat life in Paris, dabbling with online dating – but every scene and every last shred of dialogue was invented. I found it more enjoyable, making use of some of my experiences in a fictional context, once removed from my own life. Which is why plugging the novel by writing no-holds-barred pieces about my personal life would have felt like a leap backwards.

So. Let’s make this official. I’ll post updates here if I have any exciting book-related news – such as the French translation of ‘petite’, which will finally be published in my adoptive country on November 4th – and I’m sure I’ll drop by to upload a photo of the new baby, a month (or less) from now. I’m still on facebook – both in a personal capacity, and as an author – and am in the process of reviving my long neglected twitter account.

But, as far as personal blogging is concerned, I’ve turned the page. And it feels good.

Despite the fact that…

• I spent one night throwing my guts up in a bathroom which smelled of eau de septic tank
• Tadpole had to be taken to see a doctor with a suspected ear infection
• Tadpole’s ear meds made her throw up
• On one of our boating trips, the boat left an island stop WITHOUT US (and who in their right mind leaves a heavily pregnant woman and a six-year-old on an island in 40°C heat minus their belongings?), leaving The Boy with no choice but to swim heroically after it

…we had a fantastic time in Turkey.

The landscape was beautiful. The beaches were largely unspoilt (thanks to the presence of loggerhead turtles who nest in the area and prevent any sort of permanent construction.) The ruins made this ‘old stones’ lover very happy indeed. The food was yummy (although, predictably, Tadpole lived on a diet of cucumber, tomato and chips). The people were über friendly, especially to Tadpole, who now boasts a large collection of complimentary lucky eye charm beads and bracelets, and I was forced to coo over at least twenty pictures of newborn babies belonging to various waiters, taxi drivers and hotel owners. Tadpole learnt how to snorkel, and the way her face mask compressed her mouth and nose, resulting in a Meg Ryan style trout pout provided a constant source of amusement. And the dance she performs when wearing the shocking pink, jangly coin-infested costume I bought her from a bazaar in Istanbul is truly a thing to behold.

But the funniest moment, in my opinion, was when we returned home to Paris and I handed Tadpole my phone to call her daddy, who has now whisked her away on yet another holiday. Of all the things we’d seen and done, what did she tell him about? The turtles? The snorkelling? Her new costume?

No.

‘We saw a DUNG BEETLE daddy!’ she cried into the telephone. ‘It was rolling along a really big piece of goat poo-poo! And guess what? Manuel managed to kill the plante carnivore on my Princess Peach DS game and he opened up a whole new level for me!’

I’ve written a guest post for the folks over at the Window Seat blog on Travelocity which might interest any readers planning a trip to Paris in the near future.

Enjoy!

I think of all the things I’ve posted on this blog, the Tadpole sings category affords me the most retrospective amusement.

Listening to her ‘performance’ of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, in French and English, aged two, makes me realise what a long way we’ve come (and just how long I’ve been blogging).

Playing the song she invented, aged four, about falling down and ripping open her top lip on a jagged manhole cover simultaneously brings tears to my eyes and makes me laugh out loud.

I’m not one for taking a lot of photos, and almost never think to film anything, but I’ll definitely be hanging on to these audio clips for posterity.

Todays podcast features Tadpole’s rendition of the theme tune to a cartoon which was enormously popular in France in the late 70’s and early 80’s, Maya l’Abeille (Maya the Bee). Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think Maya ever aired in the UK, even if the Austro-Japanese production seems to have enjoyed success elsewhere around the world.

So I have Mr Frog and his fondness for showing Tadpole clips of favourite children’s programmes from his youth on YouTube* to thank.

And the funny noises are, um, kisses. I believe there are three. Tadpole was in an affectionate mood…

*original version of the Maya theme tune. Extremely high pitched singing alert. Play at your own risk.

Okay, I admit it. I’ve been “on a break”.

I’m not going to apologise, or offer a bouquet of excuses.

I happen to think that when you find you’ve run out of things to say or temporarily lost the desire to say them to the world at large, then it’s best to simply hold your tongue for a while.

I would however like to take a break from my break and wish everyone who has followed petite anglaise online and/or enjoyed the book (in any language) a very happy holiday season.

I will be back in early 2009, not least to remind you of the impending arrival of petite in paperback as of February 5th (see sidebar right), and of the publication of my first novel, Rendez-vous, hot on petite’s heels in August 2009…

‘Oh my God!’ I shriek as I flick through the TV channels and land on M6’s new reality show, its name displayed in the bottom corner of the screen with the ‘M’ of maman transformed into a girly pink heart. ‘This is totally my core subject for book2, I have to watch this, however dreadful it is…’ The Boy is washing up in our open plan kitchen, an undertaking which seems to involve more clanging and splashing and running of taps than is strictly necessary. I crank up the TV’s volume and reach for my laptop, curious to read about the ‘concept’ of the show.

‘Elles sont actives, dynamiques, autonomes … et mamans célibataires,’ reads the show’s blurb. So far, so good. Dynamic, independent working women, who are also single mums. I approve of the choice of positive adjectives and the word order of the sentences, which places their relationship status and motherhood last.

There are 1.76 million monoparental families in France, according to the INSEE statistics quoted by the programme’s producers. 85% of these families are headed up by a single mother. ‘But in a daily life whose rhythm is dictated by their work, their children and all the occupations of a single mother they have little time to devote to searching for their ideal man…’ I ponder for a moment what ‘all the occupations of a single mother’ might mean, trying to imagine what these tasks which are not work or childcare related might be, but draw a blank. Hopefully the show itself will enlighten me. Although I do hope the cameras won’t be allowed to peer inside the ladies’ bedside cabinets to contemplate their Rampant Rabbit collections.

Episode one introduces us to Caroline, Marie and Carine who are shown preparing meals for their children, driving them to school and contemplating their towering ironing piles with varying degrees of despair. It’s when they are asked to describe what they are looking for that I begin to want to throw things at the television screen. Pale, blonde and dreamy looking Marie professes to be looking for her own ‘modern fairy tale’. Short-haired brunette Caroline would like to meet her very own Mr Big. Heavily made-up Carine (whom The Boy immediately refers to as la cagole, and whose online profile describes her as having previously lived a life of luxury similar to Gabrielle Solis in Desperate Housewives) has simple needs: a man with the charm of Sean Connery or Robert De Niro, with a touch of Nicholas Cage.

The phrases ‘prince charmant‘ or ‘Knight in white armour’ aren’t actually bandied about, but they might as well be. The assumption is definitely that each is looking for a Mr Right and hoping to build something ’serious’ and ‘durable’.

‘They should concentrate on just finding a guy they have some chemistry with, not obsessing about how it has to be du sérieux right from the outset,’ I say, half to The Boy, who has now joined me on the sofa, and half to the TV screen. ‘You don’t go into anything knowing what the outcome’s going to be. You start off casual. Otherwise it’s doomed in advance.’ I think back to when we met, in May 2007. We definitely started off casual. I didn’t take The Boy very seriously at all in the beginning. He was five years younger than me for a start. And I was hung up on someone else.

‘Of course,’ The Boy nods. ‘But, having said that, most of the girls on the online dating site where we met said they were looking for a prince charming. It wasn’t always true, in practise, but that’s definitely what they were telling themselves…’ I shoot him a sideways glance. I suspect The Boy was as guilty as the next guy of pretending to be a prince for an hour or two in order to charm his way into their lace underwear at the end of their first date but, as they say, ignorance is bliss.

Whatever their real aspirations and motivations (aside from wanting to become D-list celebs for fifteen minutes) the mamans are somewhat unlikely to find love in the reality TV show context, where their every word and movement is, no doubt, scripted in advance. The heavily edited version of events the audience will be presented with each week won’t exactly be trustworthy either. The whole thing is little more than a farce, entertaining and excruciating in equal measures.

In the first episode, for example, each maman hosted a picnic/barbecue to which ten hopeful suitors from all four corners of France (and a film crew) were invited. Not the most natural of dating situations, in my humble opinion, and it was moderately painful to watch the candidates compete for the attention of the mums, flirting outrageously, in some cases, in order to stand out from the crowd.

It soon became clear that the format was going to be reminiscent of ‘The Bachelor’. After a single day on their group date, peppered with a few brief tête-à-tête moments, the women were already being instructed to throw out three candidates. I couldn’t help thinking that in the real world, some of the men would have withdrawn themselves from the running spontaneously, but this did not happen. Clearly every male interviewed was in this competition to win, on principle, or failing that, to spend as much time in front of the TV cameras as possible.

I don’t know if will be able to bear to tune in for future episodes, but the mind boggles. Will the men be introduced to the women’s kids at some stage? Will they – in the case of the divorcees with kids – bring their own along? If a winner is selected who lives at the opposite end of the country, how will the logistics work? And, more importantly, will there be any more traditional Breton dancing? Or perhaps a trial by ironing?

The Boy’s suggestion – that the women simply audition their ten chosen men in the bedroom – earned him a withering stare. My tirade about how these poor, misguided women were likely to find that kissing Prince Charming will probably only mean they wind up with an extra mouth to feed and an even more voluminous ironing pile did not amuse The Boy, either, as he thought I might be implying he didn’t pull his weight in matters domestic.

But I rather liked The Boy’s suggestion for an alternative title for the show. It would make a fantastic French title for book two, if such a thing ever comes to pass.

I’d only ever spent five days in the USA prior to my trip to San Francisco. It was back in May 2001, when the twin towers were still standing proud and tall and Tadpole was nothing more than an unfertilised egg in my ovaries. The weather wasn’t particularly kind to us on that trip, either. But Mr Frog and I bought cheap lightweight waterproof jackets on our first day and resolved to do everything we’d planned, regardless.

I remember getting the same nagging feeling of déjà vu back then too. Every time I sat down at the counter in a diner and the uniformed waitress refilled my coffee I felt like an extra on a film set. Every time I stepped off the pavement to try and hail an elusive taxi, it was as though I was re-enacting a scene from one of my favourite television series.

But this eerie familiarity didn’t mean that absolutely everything was how I expected it to be. It wasn’t, because however much I’ve been exposed to all things American by books and films and TV programmes for the past thirty-six years, there were still surprises. Tiny little culture shocks – scoring low on the Richter scale – that simply caused me to pause for a moment, to frown or to repress a giggle.

Random examples of things that amused/bemused me at first encounter include:

• The tone of the announcements made over the tannoy on my US Airways flights. I was expecting Sweet’N Lo insincere politeness, but instead they varied from schoolmistress bossy to downright surly;
• Waiters saying ‘pardon my reach’ when setting down my order as though they were terrified of violating my personal space without my say so;
• The odd, discontinuous shape of toilet seats in public ‘restrooms’;
• The take-away section in shops called ‘grab and go’ which sounded like an invitation to try out shoplifting;
• Advertisements for specific brand name drugs on TV, exhorting patients to ‘ask their Dr about…’ and reeling off side effects at breakneck speed;
• The food stand in a Fisherman’s Wharf market proudly advertising that it sold the city’s ‘finest pig parts’;
• Being expected to pour maple syrup over my French toast, bacon and eggs;
• Nickels and dimes. I brought home a huge wallet-full. Couldn’t memorise how many cents they were worth, for the life of me;
• Being asked if I wanted cream for my coffee and finding out that in this context, ‘cream’ actually means ‘milk’;
• Finding out that Heinz make mustard in a glass bottle shaped like a ketchup bottle. Who knew?

These were just a few random thoughts I scribbled down on the plane home while watching truly awful in-flight movies (tip: avoid ‘Made of Honor’ at all costs, even if you are a fan of McDreamy). It might have been a red-eye flight, but I knew sleep wasn’t going to be an option (even with the help of over-the-counter sleeping aid pharmaceuticals purchased at Walgreens) when I discovered that my economy seat only ‘reclined’ by five centimetres.

If anyone has any culture mini-shocks of their own they’d care to share in the comments box below, be my guest…

It was already raining the night I flew into San Francisco, my nose pressed against the plane window, but the weather did nothing to dampen my excitement. It was all I could do to prevent myself squawking out loud when I spotted the Golden Gate Bridge picked out in a blurry sparkle of orange streetlights. And as we circled the city, waiting for permission to land, I marveled at how clearly I could see its outline. There was the Embarcadero with its numbered piers stretching out into the ocean, just like on my Lonely Planet map, and in the middle, the crosshatched pattern of streets snapped to a perfect grid.

When my hostess greeted me in the airport, she was apologetic: it was the first time she’d seen rain since she relocated to the area, six weeks previously. In fact, she’d been told this was the first rain to fall on the city in five whole months. ‘Ah well, I brought my umberella,’ I said cheerfully, pronouncing it with four separate syllables à la Rihanna. ‘And I’m a Brit after all, it’s not like I’ve never seen rain before…’

Later that evening, I chortled at the local TV news where the inclement weather had dislodged the imminent elections from their rightful opening headline slot. ‘Rain is forecast for Friday, Saturday and beyond,’ announced the newsreader in her very best harbinger of doom voice. In the background a “super HD” map of the Bay area showed precisely where the rain would fall, the camera zooming in to close on the handful of named streets which would bear the brunt. The heaviest rain was forecast for Saturday. But tomorrow, the newsreader announced with gravitas, there would be widespread spotting.

Here was my first encounter with the ‘two nations divided by a common language’ phenomenon. ‘Spotting’ in British English, my American friends, is something which may occur when a lady is in the middle of her cycle and it’s a private matter concerning only the said lady and her underwear. Light rain, meanwhile, is commonly referred to in the UK as ‘drizzle’ or ’spitting’, and is not usually thought worthy of a five minute slot on the regional news.

I continued my scoffing on Friday (grey skies and intermittent bouts of drizzle) as I wandered around for a couple of hours downtown, enjoyed a spot of brunch in SOMA, then embarked on a leisurely stroll with my hosts, starting in Upper Haight and ending at 16th and Mission. Ducking in and out of shops along the way, we crossed paths with a Jedi knight and a six foot tall hot dog, admired the canine Princess Leia costumes for sale in a pet shop and expressed horror at the limited choice of Halloween costumes for women, all variations on the ’slutty’ theme, involving mini skirts and fishnet tights. When the rain began to fall more determinedly, we took shelter inside 826 Valencia, undoubtedly home to the widest selection of pirate products I’ve ever seen, and stopped to eat sturdy Mission burritos the approximate length and girth of my forearm. In short, the rain hadn’t really spoiled anything, so far, and my only regret was that jetlag got the better of me and prevented me from experiencing Halloween by night.

On Saturday morning, I was riding my first Powell-Hyde cable car up and over Russian Hill when the heavens opened. Sitting on my outward-facing outdoor seat, my jeans slowly darkening from ankle to knee, suddenly it didn’t feel like the newsreader had been exaggerating, after all…

To be continued…

I don’t think it has quite been finalised yet (there’s the small matter of making the word ‘Anglaise’ more readable which needs addressing) but I just stumbled, quite by chance, upon the paperback cover of the British edition of ‘petite anglaise’ on Amazon UK and thought it might be nice to share it with you.

As you can see, petite has undergone an extreme makeover. The marketing powers-that-be have decided that it’s out with the pushchair and métro sign and in with a possibly-less-than-subtle, curlicued Eiffel tower.

I like it. Because it screams ‘Paris’ and ‘romance’ rather than ‘mummy lit’. Because I love the turquoise-blue background and the embossed tower – to which, admittedly, this rather washed-out jpeg doesn’t really do justice, but trust me, I have a cardboard version. I rather like the cover quotes too, front and back. It’s truly amazing what can be distilled from a five hundred word review by those initiated in the dark art that is ‘cover blurbing’.

Paperback petite is due to hit the shops in February 2009, so why it’s already on Amazon, I’m not entirely sure. But if you’d like to pre-order a copy, be my guest.

I don’t think it will come as much of a surprise to you if I admit that I’m struggling to find the will to blog at the moment. The infrequency of my posts testifies to that, and if some of my more forthright commenters are to be believed, the posts I have written of late haven’t been of the standard to which my readers had been previously accustomed.

So, yes, I admit it, motivation levels are at rock bottom. I’m not sure why I feel no burning desire to document Tadpole’s funny comments, or the ups and downs of married life with The Boy, at the moment. I don’t know whether this ‘blog fatigue’ is a temporary state of affairs, or a symptom of impending blog burn-out. I’ve certainly noticed a number of my friends in blogging going into semi blog-retirement recently, so it would seem my malaise is very much dans l’air du temps.

One possible explanation for my blog fatigue is that now ‘petite’ is on the bookshelves and I’m working on a novel, I’ve moved on, in a sense, away from the cathartic but patently unhealthy navel-gazing I indulged in before. Another theory is that as writing is my bread and butter just now, blogging doesn’t hold the same attraction. I’m no longer trapped in an office doing an administrative job which taxes only a tiny portion of my brain.

This isn’t a ‘farewell to blogging’ post, however. I fully expect things to improve around here before 2008 draws to a close (my book II deadline), and in the meantime I shall continue to post sporadically whenever the fancy takes me.

And since I receive an awful lot of emails with questions from book and blog readers, I thought I’d use today’s non-post as an opportunity to open up the blog for a Q&A session, similar to this one. Feel free to post your questions below, and I’ll answer the first fifty in my next post.

One last thing: I have a question of my own. Can anyone translate the tagline from the Finnish edition of petite (in stores in Finland in 2 weeks time) “Parississa. Rakastunut. Pulassa.” ?

You can find the marathon response session here.

As our TGV hurtles towards Paris, Tadpole, who has been dozing on my knee for the past two hours, begins to stir. ‘That was a big sleep,’ I murmur softly, smoothing her hair out of her eyes. When she lifts her head, I see the imprint of my trouser seam on her left cheek. Ignoring my protesting bladder (two hours, two coffees = pain), I savour the delicious moments between sleep and wakefulness, drawing her up into my arms so that her warm face rests on my bare shoulder.

Opposite me, The Boy is engrossed in his magazine. The stranger sitting next to him – a slightly nerdy-looking thirtysomething with round glasses and a striped nautical t-shirt – is staring somewhere south of my chin. I pretend not to notice.

‘I did dream that I was a sirène, mummy’ my daughter mumbles into my neck. Her mermaid obsession shows no sign of abating. Of the fifty or so sketches she drew in her notepad during our week away in Belle Ile, over half depict mermaid princesses. The high point of her holiday was undoubtedly the half hour she spent with her legs buried under a mountain of wet sand, while I carefully sculpted a her fish tail. On the ferry from Le Palais to Quiberon, her eyes were riveted to the sea, searching for evidence of mer-activity.

The Boy spent many a summer holiday in Sauzon as a child. Going away together – all three of us – was his initiative. He first floated the idea back in December, and I think his willingness to envisage a ‘family’ trip away was one of the things which sealed the deal, spurring me to make my clumsy proposal. I’d assumed The Boy would prefer to spend his precious holiday time on an adult getaway for just the two of us, in the same vein as our Greek Island escapade last summer. (In an ideal world, we’d have done both, but with the wedding and apartment move, something had to give…)

And so we found a tiny, functional apartment overlooking the picture-postcard port of Sauzon, rented bicycles for us and a cariole to tow Tadpole and our beach bags behind us, and set out to explore the surrounding villages, countryside and beaches. We fished in rockpools, built sandcastles, jumped in the waves and picnicked outdoors. Each day we pedalled a little further from our base camp, as our confidence in our calf muscles grew, graduating from Donnant to Baluden and finally to Les Galères, a full fifteen kilometres away.

Belle Ile was breathtakingly pretty, unusually quiet for the season and the slow pace of the holidays suited me perfectly. In the train, with Tadpole yawning into my shoulder and The Boy’s tanned calf brushing against mine under the table, I feel more relaxed than I have in months.

For our first dinner ‘party’ in our new place, to which I’d invited a couple of good friends met in the blogosphere, I spent a blissfully happy morning preparing food in my small but extremely practical ‘control centre’ kitchen. The Boy was perched on his stool by the bar, reading a BD and sipping coffee. The pages didn’t turn very often though. I suspect this might have had something to do with the fact that I was wearing only an apron.

I made a spinach and salmon quiche, a broad bean, mint and feta salad and a potato salad, and spent ages finely chopping the ingredients for a dip I’d stumbled across on facebook, of all places. I had plans that afternoon, so the emphasis was on simple dishes I could prepare in advance.

Once I’d dirtied almost every utensil in the kitchen, including the dreaded presse-agrumes, I took a childish pleasure in filling my dishwasher (a parting gift from the former occupants). ‘It’s magic!’ I exclaimed to the Boy, who was still having some trouble looking me in the eye. ‘We can go visit your grandma and when we get back again… Ta da! Everything will be clean. Ah là là, je suis en sur-kiffe, là…’

It struck me suddenly that, only now, with my thirty-sixth birthday rapidly approaching, have I managed to attain the level of domestic comfort that I took for granted back home throughout my childhood.

Space is at such a premium in Paris that having a dishwasher in your kitchen is a luxury. The Boy, born and raised in Paris, has never lived in an apartment that boasted one. The kitchens in my last two apartments could best be described as glorified corridors. Once I’d crammed in the obligatory fridge, washing machine and cooker, I was left with little in the way of work surfaces. Adding another appliance would have been unthinkable. The reason behind this is simple: many Parisian buildings were built around the turn of the last century, when apartments were not built to contain bathrooms. When bathrooms were added, later, as an afterthought, kitchens often had to be sliced in two to accommodate them.

Our new place is in such a building, but suffers from none of the usual period drawbacks. The previous occupants bought two poky, run-down apartments and re-thought the space entirely, knocking down walls, tearing up the floors and re-doing everything from scratch. Which is why it now has so many of the features I love: invisible electrical wiring (electricity being another add-on in many apartments, the wiring often concealed by ‘baguettes‘ which run along the surface of the walls), speaker wire which emerges at four strategic points in the main room, and tons and tons of built-in storage (our whole bedroom floor is raised and currently contains about six cubic metres of BD, records, Tadpole’s baby clothes and other random items.) The original wood floors were re-laid once the work was finished, albeit in a different configuration, meaning that the much prized charme de l’ancien was kept intact.

‘The only thing is,’ sid the Boy, gesturing at the dishwasher, ‘that now you have all this, I’m in danger of becoming superfluous…’ Washing the dishes used to be his job, you see. I think he’s getting withdrawal symptoms.

‘Don’t worry, my dear, I can think of all kinds of ways to put you to work,’ I replied, putting my hands to my apron strings. ‘Everything will be alright, you’ll see…’

Hi folks – just to let you know that I have no internets this week as we moved to the new apartment on Friday and these things take a little time. So please bear with me (or stick me on your RSS reader so you don’t have to keep checking back…)

(I’m sure you are all on holiday anyway.)

Photos now up!

I fully intended for this post to be a witty open letter to the person who stole my identity and used my bank card for an extravagant online shopping spree (total cost: €3.285,17). Or perhaps a song, in the style of Brassens, who in Stances à un Cambrioleur so eloquently thanked the burglar who had the good taste to pay his house a visit.

It would have described my joy at receiving a letter from the Caisse d’Epargne, heavy with menace, which informed me, in typically verbose (but not particularly comprehensible) French, that having noticed repeated dysfonctionnements consécutifs à l’utilisation de ma carte bleue, I was invited to “regularise” the resulting overdraft. If not my card would be cancelled, my bank account immobilised, the Banque de France notified, and helicopters would be dispatched to hover outside my apartment window so that men in uniforms could shout at me over their loud hailers and/or airbourne snipers could get me in their sights.

Imagine my discomfiture when I took a peek at my bank statements online and noticed that I was overdrawn to the tune of a little more than € 3.285,17. Had I been sleepshopping at Brandalley, MisterGoodDeal and CarrefourMobile in Courcourrones for the past couple of weeks, or could there be some other explanation?

Cue a call to the emergency number to halt all spending on the offending card, a visit to the commissariat de police (just behind the town hall where we got married) to make a lengthy statement to a friendly, businesslike lady wearing impressively sturdy boots and, last but not least, a trip to my bank to hand in a letter explaining my woes (they don’t do oral) and attaching a list of the opérations frauduleuses they had failed to spot.

The good news is that apparently I have some sort of insurance against such eventualities and, even if my overdraft does not appear to have miraculously disappeared as yet, I am assured that all will be set right dans les meilleurs délais.

In the meantime I trust the men in helicopters have been dispatched to the delivery address provided for whatever item (a flat screen TV?) was purchased on MisterGoodDeal for the tidy sum of € 1.827,48 by my impersonator, in order to intercept the guilty party.

As for my sense of humour, it remained intact until approximately 5 p.m. yesterday, when water began to pour down my kitchen walls in a repeat performance of last year’s dégât des eaux and I began searching for contact details for the absent, brand-new owner of the apartment using google.

It reached an all time low at 4.53 a.m. when I could be found atop a ladder in my négligé and rubber soled shoes, brandishing a screwdriver, intent on removing the water-filled bathroom ceiling light.

So there will be no witty, carefully-crafted post today as morale is at rock bottom.

Move along folks, nothing to see here.

It’s such a long time since I pencilled into my diary my reading at the famous Shakespeare & Company bookshop that I almost forgot about it, to be honest. But it’s crept up on me, and I’ve just realised it is going ahead on the very day upon which Manuel and I will be signing for our new place (there goes my plan to ‘christen’ every corner of the new apartment on signing day…)

So, if you happen to be in Paris on Monday 28 July and free from 7-9pm, do come along and say hello. I’ll be reading from ‘petite’, answering questions, signing books, giving away a few goodies and who knows, maybe we can retire to a nearby café afterwards for a drink or two…

Now, back to my furniture porn.

My writing studio, at the moment, looks like someone (semi-skilled) has tried to play a game of tetris around its edges.

To get to my desk I have to step over Tadpole’s first bicycle (the very same bicycle Mr Frog and I bought for her second birthday, just prior to him moving out). Around the sofa bed are piled boxes (of books and BD’s, mostly) from Manuel’s flat – which he relinquished last month – teetering alongside the scant few pieces of furniture he wanted to hang on to. On top of these are stacked the contents of Mr Frog’s cellar, emptied during his recent move, basically constituting everything Tadpole has ever worn or played with, 2003-2008.

Every time I open the door and see the sheer volume of stuff piled up there, leering at me, I feel a mixture of wistfulness and excitement. The tiny room is a repository of memories: Tadpole’s life to date; Manuel’s life before we met. But it also represents the imminence of our new beginnings. The prospect of re-using some of Tadpole’s old things in the not too distant future (or so we hope). The prospect of transferring all our possessions – his, mine, hers – under one, jointly-owned roof.

We are moving into our new, bigger place at the end of this month. We’ll have a living room, at long last. A room into which the whole of my current flat would fit comfortably, with space to spare. It will be ours instead of mine: bookshelves will house both our book collections, cupboards will be filled with our intermingled clothes. We’ll be able to invite folks over for dinner.

We signed the first papers back in April, but something, superstition perhaps, prevented me from writing about it here until we had a signature date set in stone and I could be 100% sure our dream was really set to become reality. In the meantime (alongside the wedding preparations) there were loans to be obtained (and to say French banks are suspicious of people like me who do not have a nice, stable office job would be the understatement of the year), and various hoops to be jumped through, but now, finally, our prize is (almost) within our grasp.

Which is why when I’m not working or hijacking moving cars, I can mostly be found surfing the internet for furniture p0rn and making appropriate ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ noises when I find something sexy.

The month of August can’t come quickly enough for me.

FYI: Manuel is pronounced Man-U-el (think football team, not Fawlty Towers).

If there’s one thing I hate more than any other, it’s going to bed after a fight still seething with anger.

All those hateful, half-meant words are left hanging in the air, drawing an invisible barrier down the middle of the bed which neither of us will cross, mired as we are in stubborn self-righteousness. The unresolved tension in the room is palpable: I can feel it, smell it, taste it. I lie, every muscle locked, jaw clenched, breathing in, breathing out, knowing that sleep will elude me for hours, knowing that the next morning I’ll feel battered, bruised and melancholy. Sometimes I get up, creep into Tadpole’s room and lay beside her for a while, drawing a basic, animal comfort from her sleeping presence. Short of sitting on the toilet or standing in the kitchen there’s actually nowhere else to go. But any reprieve is only temporary: I’ll have to return to the living room-cum-bedroom sometime. I’ll have to return to our bed, stretch out beside him, my husband, wondering whether he’s seething too, or has fallen asleep, leaving me to seethe alone.

Getting married – lovely in countless ways – hasn’t miraculously transformed the dynamic of our relationship. We alternate periods of blissful happiness and intense physical complicity with short bursts of conflict, just like we always have. I know the latter are temporary. At best, he’ll come home from work and act as though nothing happened and I’ll follow suit, play acting woodenly at first, then slowly relaxing until the farce becomes reality. At worst we’ll have a post-mortem, during which the animosity may flare up again, briefly, before it’s laid to rest.

What worries me is that the underlying cause is never actually resolved. The triggers vary, but the subject at its core is constant, rearing its ugly head time and time again. In a nutshell, and without actually raking through our dirty laundry, it’s about where the right to individual freedom blurs into selfishness. Every fight gives us extra ammunition; the evidence for our respective cases stacks up. He treats me to a retrospective, pulling out every notable example from the past six months, demonstrating by A+B+C that I’m fundamentally flawed. My line of attack is different, but no less destructive: I project present behaviour into future situations, anticipating problems ahead.

When I’m calm, no longer seething, I can see his point of view. I’m not blind to my own flaws – a dash of possessiveness, a hint of insecurity, a sprinkling of irrationality, among others – and he’s not the first person to have pointed them out to me. I may be able to alter certain behavioural patterns, over time, and I can certainly admit that a particular thing I said, or a way in which I reacted was clumsy, aggressive, or just plain wrong. I can apologise for A or B or C.

But I can’t help thinking that as long as the core subject remains unresolved, the rest is just window dressing. And I fear this means that, nestling between the periods of blissful happiness and intense physical complicity, there may be many more nights of seething up ahead until we find a way to figure this out.

‘Look at my big nichons mummy,’ Tadpole shrieks, fingering her (papier mâché) breasts.

It is 10.30 am on Saturday morning and Mr Frog and I have come to watch Tadpole’s annual school carnival, while The Boy, not wishing to step over any invisible lines, remains at home. This year the children are all dressed up as works of art and the overall effect is a joyous riot of colour. The costumes, made out of stiff paper, are worn like pinafores, covering the children’s clothes and turning them into walking sandwich boards. As we stand at the edge of the school playground, behind improvised police-tape style barriers, rubbing sleep from our eyes, the children file past hand in hand.

Tadpole, unable to keep a secret, had whispered to me weeks earlier that the costume she was making was a Niki de Saint Phalle sculpture. I’d recognised most of the names she’d been bandying about over the past few weeks – ‘we did a painting just like Pollock mummy, we put the paint on the paintbrush and then did throw it in splodges onto the paper’ or ‘I did a picture of a lady with a very wide face, just like Fernando Bottero’ – but Saint Phalle was not a name I was familiar with. ‘I’m going to be a sculpture,’ explained Tadpole helpfully, as I waited for the relevant page to power up on Wikipedia. ‘A sculpture of a lady with great big nipples and a big fat bottom wearing a swimming costume.’

It was The Boy who, at the mention of Niki de Saint Phalle, pointed out that the fountains in place Igor Stravinsky, in the shadow of the Centre Pompidou are Saint Phalle sculptures. I knew them well, but never would have put two and two together.

‘Shall we go on the métro on an adventure?’ I suggest to Tadpole on Sunday afternoon.

‘Ooh yes, I love the métro,’ she replies, darting across the room to fetch her shoes. If only everyone were so easy to please.

When we reach our destination, Tadpole shrieks with delight and I catch The Boy’s eye, silently thanking him for coming up with the idea. We make several tours of the huge rectangular bassin, Tadpole racing on ahead, examining each sculpture in turn, trying to decide which one she likes best. My personal favourite is the reclining mermaid with water squirting out of one huge, multicoloured breast, but Tadpole is just as amused by the huge pair of lips, the spinning bowler hat, the Elmer-like Elephant and the majestic crowned bird, wings spread, reminiscent of a Mayan condor god. We take a few snaps of Tadpole, posing by the sculptures, squinting into the sun and grinning like the Cheshire cat.

When the skies darken and the first raindrops fall, we hurry into the Marais to find a restaurant where we can grab a bite to eat. Tadpole doodles on the back of a napkin with a biro unearthed from the bottom of my handbag.

Elbows on the table, chin cupped in my hands, I look from The Boy to Tadpole and back again, marvelling at how simple and how right everything feels.

For Gonzales (aka fella?).

It is Sunday morning. After a friend’s birthday dinner at Le Chapeau Melon the previous night and a few glasses of wine, I’m feeling sluggish. It’s been weeks since I’ve managed to sleep in. When I’m feeling stressed and highly strung I wake early, my overactive brain skittering uncontrollably from worry to worry until I can’t bear it any more and have to haul myself out of bed to escape my own thoughts. But today I’m so snug, my head’s so empty, that I just want to savour the feeling of warm bed, the back of my hand grazing The Boy’s smooth buttock.

The problem, of course, is that I’m supposed to be taking Tadpole to her water play session (I hesitate to call it swimming class, as there is still no sign of any teaching element whatsoever). I have to go: it’s paid for, she loves it and I even made the mistake of mentioning it when I got up to make her breakfast a few hours earlier. She’s watching a DVD at present in the next room while I drift in and out of sleep, rain pattering comfortingly against the windowpane. There’s no way she will have forgotten.

I hear a noise, and it takes me a while to register whether the culprit is the doorbell, the alarm clock, or one of the four mobile phones The Boy and I have lying around the room. By the time I work out what is going on and have crawled across the room, a message has been left on my phone. The number is an unfamiliar land line, and I contemplate replacing phone in handbag without investigating further. Then again, maybe someone somewhere has just answered my prayers. So I dial “888″ and clamp the phone to my ear to listen, a smile slowly spreading across my face.

‘Bonjour, je vous appelle de la piscine Grange aux Belles,’ says the voice. It’s the jovial lady with a poodle perm who guards the swimming pool entrance, usually armed with a large tin of assorted sweets. ‘La séance de 11h30 est annulée,’ she says breathlessly, probably making her twentieth identical call. ‘En raison d’un caca dans l’eau.’

‘Hallelujah,’ I say, glancing at the clock, which reads 11.15 am. I slip between the covers, unable to believe my good fortune.

I’m inordinately proud today at having written a piece in French for Rue89 about the sacking and book deal.

The Boy was asked to re-read it before I submitted it to the editors and, to my delight, only moved two commas. He did however mutter something about the length of my sentences (very British, apparently).

It was an enjoyable experience – I don’t get nearly enough opportunity to write in French these days – but it has convinced me that I’ll leave translating “petite” into French to the experts.

As a rule, I don’t much enjoy memes and usually pretend I haven’t noticed when someone tags me. But Meg and I live on the same street and run into each other practically every day, so I didn’t fancy my chances of successfully dodging this one.

I’ve dutifully picked up the nearest book, Une Pièce Montée by Blandine Le Callet, turned to page 123, skipped to the fifth sentence and below are the next three. Note how differently the French punctuate speech.

-Jean-Philippe, on ne peut pas continuer à se couper de tout le monde comme ça…
-Tu sais bien qu’on ne va pas se sentir à l’aise.
-Parle pour toi!

I haven’t started yet, I must confess, but page 123 catapults the reader straight into the midst of a domestic dispute about wedding arrangements, albeit a somewhat restrained and polite one.

Le Callet’s novel, the cover blurb of which describes her pen as “acerbic”, apparently sets about mocking the rituals of bourgeois weddings. I stumbled across it while seeking an anti-Valentine’s present for The Boy, then ended up popping it in my virtual shopping basket for myself.

Because one thing I love about the French is their ability to couch the most bitter of arguments in the most irreproachably polite language.

The Boy’s Valentine gift, in case you are wondering, was an otter adoption package, complete with soft toy otter and a packet of ‘otter droppings’, aka chocolate raisins.

We might be eschewing most of the more traditional wedding day customs when we tie the knot, in late spring, but I do plan on having a pièce montée. Whether it will be made of macarons or a choux pyramid coated in caramel, remains to be hotly disputed.

And now I get to tag: so, ams tram gram or however that French eeny meeny miny mo(e) chant goes… Tim and Lucy. You’re tagged.

This almost feels like cheating, and I’d certainly categorise it as lazyblogging. But if Anna can get away with it, why the heck not… Plus, it’s a neat way of dealing with a lot of queries in one place instead of firing off emails or replying to individual comments. (Obviously the questions do not have to be book related.)

So. Ask me a question, and I will answer the first fifty. Everything you (n)ever wanted to know (and that you hadn’t already read here, here or even here…)

Fire away!

I’m posting the answers here.

To say that Tadpole rarely shares insights about her secret life in the moyenne section of our local maternelle would be something of an understatement. Invariably, on the way home from school, we have a conversation which goes something like this.

Me: “So, what did you do today?”

Tadpole: “Just some things.”

Me: “What did you have for lunch?”

Tadpole: “I can’t remember. But you can look on the computer, mummy, can’t you…?”

Which is why I was rather taken by surprise when she randomly launched into a playground anecdote over dinner yesterday evening. An anecdote which concerned a boy who was in her class last year. I am still at a loss to understand what caused the memory to surface just then.

“Mummy?” says Tadpole between mouthfuls of canneloni (from which I have scraped all trace of bechamel sauce, at her behest). “When I was three years old and I was in the other class at school…” – she holds up three fingers in case I need help understanding the concept – “…one day I did go in the playground with Youssouf while the other children were doing music.”

“Mmhm?” I repy, stabbing several green beans onto her fork, because for some reason, even though Tadpole is perfectly capable of feeding herself, she generally loses the will to eat after approximately five mouthfuls in the evenings and I have to step unwillingly into the breach.

“And I did ask Youssouf ‘tu es mon amoureux?‘ and he said ‘oui‘ and we did hold hands for a little while,” Tadpole continues.

I like the word ‘amoureux‘. The Boy often uses it when introducing me to a friend of his for the first time. I like to think of it as a combination of ‘beloved’ and ‘lover’ – literally it means ‘the person I’m in love with’. It’s so much nicer than ‘ma copine‘ (too impersonal, it could designate any female friend) or ‘ma petite copine‘ (even if I am used to answering to the name ‘petite‘). What the term ‘amoureux‘ implies to a four-year-old though, I’m far from sure.

“Is Youssouf still your amoureux now?” I enquire, setting down the fork for a moment.

“No. He did have the nez coulé and it wasn’t very nice,” Tadpole explains with a grimace. I freeze. Just how close did my daughter get to that runny nose of his?

“And, um, do you have an amoureux now?”

“I play with Dinah now,” Tadpole replies. “And Youssouf, he plays with Hicham.” This, I surmise, could mean one of two things. That their short-lived relationship was so traumatic that it drove both of them into the arms of a same-sex partner, or that amoureux, to Tadpole, simply means ‘best friend’.

“So, who is mummy’s amoureux?” I ask, keen to test my theory immediately.

“You have two,” says Tadpole, with a triumphant smile that means she is convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt she knows the correct answer. “Daddy… And Meg.”

I heave a sigh of relief.

It has been suggested in my comments box that my margin for manoeuvre, in terms of the subject matter I can post on petite anglaise, may have been seriously reduced since I was divested of my anonymity last year. I think it’s a question worth delving into, given that, while there may be some truth in this, my reasons for self-censoring (and ultimately writing less) are actually far more complex…

Having my name “out there” doesn’t make me feel any different. I’ve yet to be recognised by a complete stranger in the street (well, okay, I was once, but said person was too shy to approach me and I’m only aware of our near miss because he sent me a bashful email afterwards). In the past, I always said I cared only about what my friends and family thought of me, so does it really matter whether the host of faceless readers who visit this blog now know my name? Most are still just as unlikely to cross my path.

What has changed, however, is that there are a few people I encounter in my daily life who have read an article in a newspaper, or who saw me on the French TV news, and know of the blog, even if I doubt they continue to read it now. My bank manager, the estate agent who sold me my flat, a woman I once spoke to at the tax office and a few fellow parents at my daughter’s school, some of whom I’d quite like to befriend. When we mutter our sleepy ‘bonjour’s in the morning, the uncomfortable thought crosses my mind from time to time that they may or may not know all sorts of things about me. And composing posts about Tadpole’s exploits, I have, on occasion, found myself changing her classmates’ names.

Then, of course, there is the effect my name being public can have on my family. I’m even more reluctant to allude to my sisters, as their friends will know exactly who I’m talking about. And when my mother pops into the village shop for a bottle of milk, there is every likelihood that she might run into someone who knows someone who knows someone who reads petite anglaise, given the Yorkshire Post ran several stories about me in the course of the last year. I strongly resent the idea of having to sanitise my content just because of “what the neighbours might think” but on the other hand, I don’t want to upset my family.

Some people have suggested it would be prudent for me to avoid what Mr Frog calls “crispy subjects” (the French phrase “sujets croustillants” can be used figuratively) because I have, or will have, a raised public profile come book publication. The thinking goes something like this: I’ve already committed the cardinal sin of being a happily unmarried mother, in the eyes of the Daily Mail, and look how the Sunday Times chose to take my “bad mummy” posts at face value, reading them as admissions of parental inadequacy. My ex-employer demonstrated at tribunal – albeit with limited success – how easy it is to pluck random quotes from my blog and make it look as though they mean precisely the opposite of what I originally intended. So, if I write about recovering from a rather vicious hangover once every six months, will I be portrayed as an alcoholic? If I allude to a runny nose, will someone infer that I have been snorting fat white lines off the Boy’s bottom?

Which leads me neatly on to the subject of the Boy, why I have deigned to share so little information about him with my readers. The answer is, I think, a combination of superstition (not wanting to jinx things when they are going so surprisingly well) and a genuine desire not to repeat past mistakes. I’m painfully aware that I’ve had a tendency to use my blog as an extra layer of communication with boyfriends in the past. Writing posts which were, in effect, open letters to one person in particular doesn’t seem like the healthiest way to behave. Using words as weapons to manipulate, to make someone feel guilty, to apologise for some wrongdoing and beg for forgiveness – these are all roads I have previously trodden. The fact that the Boy seems to have been blessed with emotional intelligence in spades and would immediately see through these kind of ploys makes this new resolution easier to keep.

Last, but not least, I hold some stories back because I want to use them in the writing which constitutes my day job; my bread and butter. Book Two is a fiction project, but I’d be a fool not to write about what I know and draw heavily from my own experiences. So, when something happens which is too good not to use in some way, I now have to evaluate whether I should hold it in reserve.

So, while I have no intention whatsoever of giving up on petite anglaise, the rules have changed, the goalposts shifted. And at the very least, I thought this was something I should acknowledge.

Anonymity is the personal blogger’s best friend. Lose it at your own peril.

In the course of our holiday we spent a few days on four islands in the south of the Cyclades: Santorini, Naxos, Ano Koufonissi and Amorgos. Each island was very different in terms of size, landscape and the nationalities of the tourists we encountered, and every time we boarded a boat to move on, it felt as though our holiday was starting all over again. Multiple leaps into the unknown added to the excitement. Never before had a two week holiday felt so deliciously long, so limitlessly elastic.

Some things, however, were constant wherever we went. Villages, their white buildings like cubes of feta flung from the sky by the gods, clinging to the slopes of mountains, teetering on cliff edges, nestling in arid inland valleys. Hundreds of chapels with dark blue curved roofs and a collection of different sized bells hanging from a frame adjacent to the entrance. Stray cats of all sizes and colours begging for scraps from our plates when we sat down to eat. The ubiquitous greek salads, saganaki, moussaka, stuffed tomato and aubergine which cropped up on every menu.

And the fact that the further we drove away from civilisation on our rented moped to seek out ever more secluded beaches, the likelihood of encountering people wearing little more than sunscreen increased proportionally.

Having led a somewhat sheltered life, I’d never taken my bikini top off in public before, let alone watched a man snorkelling in a tiny bay, his scrotum bobbing insouciantly on the surface. Under cover of my sunglasses, peering over the top of my book, I looked around with interest at naked bodies of all ages, shapes and sizes.

Once I’d finished marvelling at how asexual this public display of nudity seemed to be, I began conducting informal surveys. My conclusions were as follows: female nudists tend to go for the natural look in terms of pubic topiary, rather than reaching for the wax; elderly people do not necessarily have matching collars and cuffs; absolutely everyone, however skinny, gets folds on their tummy when sitting; there is a very disturbing breed of Italian women who have the lithe bodies of twenty-year-olds, but sun damaged, puckered faces which look decades older.

As for yours truly, my bikini briefs remained firmly in place, which means I am now in the possession of a glow in the dark bottom. But even though my bikini top spent most of its time in my beach bag, I never quite got over my innate British prudishness, nor did I manage to overcome my morbid fear of burnt nipples. (The only flaw in my other holiday book, in my humble opinion, is that a character uses beer bottle tops to protect her nipples while sunbathing on a Greek Island. Surely, being made of metal, they would heat up in the sun and turn into branding irons?)

And so it was that even on day fourteen I found myself instinctively crossing my arms across my chest as I emerged from the water and stepped gingerly across the pebbles to my beach towel, much to the Boy’s amusement.

You can take the girl away from her island and transplant her onto the “continent”, but you can’t, it seems, flush the prudishness out of the petite anglaise…

… you decide to remove the year of your birth from facebook.

The boy and I nearly didn’t make it to the Cyclades at all.

The night before we were due to leave, I was wrenched out of a deep sleep by the sound of my mobile phone vibrating loudly against the dining table in the next room. The Boy shifted, muttered something inaudible, then resumed his gentle snoring. I was in two minds about whether to bother hauling myself out of bed. The odds on Mr Frog calling with some sort of Tadpole emergency in the middle of the night were very slim, I reasoned. It was, most likely, a wrong number. I would check in the morning…

Five minutes later, resigned to the fact that sleep would only elude me if I didn’t solve the mystery of the nocturnal phone call, I blundered through into the kitchen without my glasses, swearing as I stubbed my toe on the door frame.

Flipping open the phone, holding the screen the requisite five centimetres from the tip of my nose, I read “Missed call: G7.”

“Merde MERDE MERDE!” I yelped. “The taxi company… Oh Jesus, it’s 6.52! We were supposed to be downstairs five minutes ago! WHY THE HELL DIDN’T THE ALARM GO OFF?”

Sitting in a(nother) taxi fifteen minutes later, unwashed, dishevelled, heart still racing, I gave the Boy (he who had been entrusted with the task of setting the alarm) a sidelong glance, and wondered whether this stressful start augured ill for the rest of our holiday.

Tadpole scowls at me across the dinner table. She hasn’t touched her food, despite the fact that I let her choose the dinner menu. Instead she pushes it around her plate listlessly, scattering baby peas and grains of rice onto the tabletop. Every few seconds, it seems, I have to ask her to refrain from pushing with her legs against the wall (after an incident earlier in the day when she ended up on the floor, howling, with the chair on top of her).

My patience, if I could see it, would probably resemble the ketchup on the table in front of me. A few dregs remain, coating the sides of the squeezable plastic bottle, but they are congealed and almost impossible to reach.

I spent the best part of the afternoon standing on a stepladder and scraping paint off the bathroom ceiling with a kitchen spatula. Flakes of slightly soggy paint collected in my hair, fell down the front of my dress, and welded themself to my arms as I scraped. Occasionally, when I pierced a water bubble, a trickle of water ran along the spatula, down my arm, and into the crook of my armpit, making me shiver.

The upstairs neighbour didn’t even have the good grace to look sheepish, let alone apologise, when the plumber sent by the copropriété concluded that a leaking tap in his apartment was the cause, and not the communal downpipe which runs through our bathroom wall. It will probably be months before I manage to get the requisite quotes to fix the warped window and fill in the pitted ceiling and have them approved by his insurance company. The drip drip drip had gone uninterrupted for two whole weeks while Tadpole and I were away in Yorkshire. Perfect timing.

Now my head is throbbing, an insistent dull pulsing which echoes the drip drip drip in the bathroom as the last of the water works its way through the ceiling, and the glass of wine I poured myself a few minutes earlier does not appear to be helping.

I heave myself out of my chair and curl up in a ball on my bed. Tadpole appears by my side and puts her face close to mine. I open my mouth to ask her to sit back down again, then close it. She has begun stroking my forehead, ever so gently, and it is so soothing, I don’t want her to stop.

“What’s matter mummy?” she says softly. “Are you ever so slightly extremely tired?”

My lawyer confirmed to me yesterday that my ex-employer not only does not intend to appeal, but has already paid up.

What a relief to see good sense finally prevailing, albeit later, rather than sooner…

NB: Me Eolas has written about his interpretation of events here, with useful links back to his previous posts about the case, as an impartial legal expert.

Tadpole and I are in a taxi, speeding along the A1 on the way to Roissy-Charles de Gaulle airport. Tadpole is chattering away, nine to the dozen, and I am marvelling at the ease with which she has slipped back into English after a three week holiday spent entirely in French mode with mamie and papy.

“I’m so excited to go to see grandma and grandad,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “Grandad, he does always call me ‘long skinny banana legs’ and ‘curly top’, and he make me laugh…”

The previous day, when Mr Frog answered the door, I was overjoyed to be greeted by shrieks of “mummy, mummy, you’re here… I did miss you!” as a blurry, long-limbed figure with honey-coloured ringlets launched herself across the room and into my arms, nearly toppling me with the force of her hug. Usually it takes her a few hours to acclimatise herself after a prolonged absence, with me speaking English in the meantime, but Tadpole replying in French. Mr Frog, I noted, looked as surprised and pleased as I did to see her plunge into her mother tongue the very moment she clapped eyes on me.

“Mummy?” says Tadpole, putting a hand on my arm.

“Mmm?”

“When I’m thinking,” she says slowly, “on top of my head there are some clouds.” Her hands motion in the air above her curls. “A little cloud here, another little cloud on top, and then a big big cloud that touches the ceiling of the taxi car… Like in a bande dessiné. Can you see my clouds, mummy?”

I pretend to study the air above her head before I make my answer. “No,” I reply with a frown. “I think they must be invisible.”

“In the big cloud,” she says confidentially, “there is a picture of a teddy. Because I thinking that I would like to buy a new teddy.”

I grin, then lean across the leather seat of the taxi and cover her face with impulsive kisses.

That evening, chatting to my boy on MSN, I tell him about the thought bubbles, knowing that he will be suitably impressed, being a typical Frenchman with a sizeable collection of BD on his well-stocked, slightly intimidating bookshelves.

“If I had a bubble over my head right now,” I write, returning to the subject later, when our conversation has veered onto other, more adult, topics, “it would probably be prefaced with Viewer Discretion Advised!…” This elicits a virtual chuckle. My boy, who has been immobilised for a few days with a back pain of mysterious origin (for which I intend to take full credit in the absence of any compelling medical evidence to the contrary), pauses for a moment before replying.

“J’aurais peur de lire ‘previously on the world poker tour’ au dessus de ma tête,” he confesses sheepishly.

When I meet someone special, someone I can conceive of being with not just next month, but far, far beyond, the initial euphoria invariably begins to mingle with a morbid fear of capsizing the boat. “Please don’t let me fuck this up” becomes my mantra.

It’s a vicious, vicious circle, because this terror breeds a pathetic neediness. And neediness is the biggest turn off; the thing most likely to send any man/boy running at top speed in the opposite direction. So mostly I try to conceal it, to shrug it off, to pretend that it’s not there. As one of my commenters once said, “you have to hide your crazy”.

But when he shows up, exhausted, and looks straight through me, oblivious to the efforts I’ve made (new underwear, freshly washed hair, discreet make up), throws himself down on the couch and closes his eyes, something inside me withers. “You’ve been spending so much time together lately that look, he’s taking you for granted already,” the demon on my left shoulder hisses into my ear. “He’d rather you weren’t there at all,” he adds for good measure. “You might as well just go home…” My lower lip begins to wobble. I hate myself for being so weak and contemptible.

I have had a stressful day, I tell myself. A procedure at the doctor’s. Some family friction which has been preying on my mind for weeks. A final deadline on my manuscript. So of course, there are other, legitimate reasons why I can, almost should be feeling wobbly right now.

I leave the room, fetch myself a glass of water, stare blankly out of the kitchen window into the night, willing myself to relax, pleading with the demon to leave me in peace. I don’t want to cause some sort of ridiculous, pointless scene. I don’t want to be a neurotic, over-sensitive, nightmare bitch from hell. Please don’t let me fuck this up.

“Honey,” he calls from the sofa, “okay if I play a game on the computer for half an hour?”

Something inside me snaps.

I let my third blog birthday slip by uncelebrated on July 7th (well actually I celebrated, but enough about that already), but I see that right about now it is a full calendar year since my world went utterly stark raving mad.

Starting, if I remember correctly, with a phone call from Radio Five Live while I was in the middle of signing up for unemployment benefit at an ASSEDIC office near Père Lachaise, the day Colin published his scoop in the Daily Telegraph.

Colin, my friend and mentor throughout, has written a post about it all here. What a difference a year can make, indeed.

In a couple of weeks’ time I should know for sure whether the legal battle is over, or whether I’ll be limbering up for round two sometime next year. As for the press madness, I suspect I should brace myself for a not very low profile 2008.

But in the meantime, I can be found lounging by the pool enjoying what anonymity I have left, in style. And that sure beats typing dictations and formatting accounts, I can tell you…

I’ve never been very good at the business of being a proper girl.

Let’s take the example of hair. When I go to the hairdresser’s, my first words are invariably: “under no circumstances do ANYTHING to me that will require some sort of styling or – god forbid – blow drying. I’m incapable of blow drying my hair. No. Really. I can’t do it. At all.” Memories of my late teens, when I foolishly attempted to carry off a shortish bob, still haunt me. One side curled under, while the other kicked outwards with a stubborn willfulness. Congenitally unable to do anything with a curling brush and hair-dryer which would remedy this sorry situation, I had to resign myself to only looking halfway decent on the days when I managed to bribe my younger sister to do the honours.

Needless to say I shiver in anticipation of the day when Tadpole will beg me to put her hair in plaits, or even demand pigtails which are not of hopelessly different sizes. I’d rather not imagine how I will respond when she asks me how to apply nail polish without liberally smearing it on her cuticles (I can only manage nearly nude colours without mishap), how to wield an eye liner pencil, or how to tweeze her eyebrows into symmetrical submission. None of these things seem to be programmed into my DNA. I’m starting to wonder if my X chromosomes aren’t a little bit, well, wonky.

But over the last couple of days I have truly excelled myself.

It all began when I purchased a dress for the soirée I’m attending at the weekend. Said dress involves displaying my white legs, including the attractive array of bruises (of uncertain origin) on my left calf. Or maybe it all began when I reluctantly agreed to receive a trial free subscription of Elle magazine and idly skimmed through an article in which self-tanning products were proclaimed to be so much improved these days that only a fool could apply them badly.

I think you can see where I might be going with this, no?

After a careful exfoliation session using an abrasive mitt I bought under duress in the Marrakech souk, I decided to apply the self-tanning lotion to my legs only. My arms seem to be a tone darker anyway, and conscious of my limitations – despite whatever claims of foolproofness Elle were advancing – I wasn’t about to start on my torso, even if the dress is strappy and exposes a fair bit of back and shoulder and skims my cleavage. I washed my hands carefully afterwards, even scrubbing my fingers with a nail brush. Then, dressed only in my bathrobe, I busied myself making Tadpole’s dinner, pottering about my apartment and waiting for my dinner guest/babysitter to arrive, periodically surveying my legs and finding their colour unchanged (despite the claim on the tube that results would be seen after only one hour).

At some point in the early hours of the morning while I was dancing to Tiga in a dimly lit nightclub and vehemently regretting my choice of footwear – the only pair of high heeled sandals I have ever possessed, which I can just about manage to walk in, although flights of stairs can be problematic – the product must have worked its magic. Magic which I didn’t notice until this morning due to a combination of vodka and tonic and poor lighting conditions.

Verdict: amazingly my legs look okay! Not a streak in sight, only a slightly darker tone around the knee area, but not so as you’d notice. However I am now the proud owner of a pair of streaky, mismatched, dirty-looking feet with an odd albino patch in the middle of my right foot. This is not catastrophic, as I have learnt from the previous night’s mistake and will not be wearing strappy, foot-exposing sandals to my soirée.

It is in the bath, vigorously scrubbing my feet with my exfoliating mitt (to no avail), that I notice a strange patch on one side of my stomach. I frown, wondering how on earth the lotion could possibly have transferred itself onto my belly. Onto just one side of my belly. But it is when I spy the triangular patches on the undersides of my forearms that I begin to howl.

Replaying my movements the previous night, try as I might, I cannot for the life of me remember sitting with my arms wrapped around my knees before the lotion dried. Nor can I work out how a small amount of said lotion managed to find its way onto my left breast.

This afternoon, having made the unwise decision to apply more of the offending autobronzant to my arms, in the hope that this would somehow dissimulate the offending triangles, I am feeling not a little apprehensive, and wondering whether it might not be wise to go into hiding for a few days.

I seem to have tempted fate and spoken a little too soon. I have some further edits to do, after getting some helpful feedback from t’other side of the Atlantic, and I will be tweaking and fiddling for another couple of weeks before I allow myself a few days away in Lucy Pepper Land (also known as Lisbon, Portugal).

Which means I’m a little too busy to tell you about the Arctic Monkeys at the Zénith last night, the rave I’m going to at the weekend, the picnic on Sunday during which Tadpole put her foot (quite literally) into an exquisite Dalloyau chocolate cake, the loveliness that was a visit from Mr and Mrs Little Red Boat…

so, um, sorry folks… Will try to write more soon.

So, if I were to be planning a sun, sand and (ahem) sex getaway in late August and was considering the Canary Islands as a possible destination, what would my dear readers suggest? Any info on tourist traps to be avoided, well-equipped but untacky hotels, most picturesque spots etc would be extremely welcome.

We (ah yes, we) have a pretty decent budget, don’t drive (I daren’t, he can’t), are keen to take in more than one island over a 10-14 day period, and we’d rather book it ourselves than get some sort of horrid package deal.

Of course, if any of my dear readers has a 5* villa with pool and would like lend it to me…

Now all I have to do is keep all my most horrifying and repellent character traits well and truly under wraps for the next month or so…

update:Gave up on the Canaries and am going to Greek Islands instead. Have only booked flight so far, so all advice still welcome…

A good friend of mine emailed me a link yesterday to the indie film “Four Eyed Monsters” suspecting it would appeal to me. He was not wrong. I just watched all 71 minutes of it before my first cup of coffee of the day. It’s honest, quirky, touching and occasionally hilarious. And as someone who has lived out an entire relationship over the interwebnet, ça me parle…

So, in short, I have no qualms about using whatever internet influence I possess to promote it.

The filmmakers are distributing it for free on youtube for a limited time only, and are asking for your help to pay off the credit card debt they incurred to make it by joining spout.com (who will make a $1 donation for every signup), buying a DVD or a legal download of the film ($8).

I’ve been having so much fun with these of late that it seemed remiss of me not to link to them. I mean, who else makes cards with titles like “Our safe word scares me” or “You’re single because you use emoticons”?

Take a look. The juxtapositions of the texts with the most unlikely images kills me.

update:

How do they know?

Having written an article for Comment is Free back in April about internet footprints and the danger inherent in leaving personal data all around the internet for future employers/parents-in-law to see, what have I gone and done? Enlarged my trail from its previously modest sparrow-like proportions into an elephant-sized paw print of worrying dimensions, that’s what. A week of enforced inactivity in a Yorkshire village was all it took to unleash my inner 2.0 monster.

The eagle-eyed among you have already noticed the petite myspace link in the sidebar, to your right, along with my facebook profile and associated non-official “fan” site, with its own cafepress merchandise store (I shan’t link to these as they are not my own creations). I’ve been scrobbling away in LastFM and joining groups with names that made me snort my Yorkshire tea down my nose. The only thing I have so far managed to resist – and I must, because it is the internet version of crack cocaine – is twitter. But I fear it is only a matter of time.

Where will it all end? Will I find myself unable to engage in any form of communication which does not involve a keyboard? Will my MacBook become welded to my satin pyjama clad thighs?

I fear for the future.

So, um, petite in jimjams? Anyone?

Cast your votes here.

And don’t forget my dear friends anna boat (personal) – eek, and Lucy Pepper too in same category, how is one supposed to choose? – jonnyb (UK), Le Blagueur à Paris (expat, writing) and nardac (underappreciated) …

update: results are available for viewing here.

Am I the last person to find gizoogle?

I do like the title chosen for my one off column at the New Statesman.

Hurrah!

Dashing off to Switzerland to visit a friend, but before I went, just needed to post this link:

I was standing in the queue for passport control at Marrakech airport when my mobile phone started to purr in my pocket.

“Sorry, can’t meet you for dinner tonight. Reservation problem.” Mr Frog

I felt like a balloon, slowly deflating. My first day. Out of the aeroplane not five minutes, and already some bad news.

“Shame,” I texted back. I thought that was suitably ambiguous. He could read into that whatever he wanted. It could mean “Oh, okay, never mind, that’s cool” but equally “Oh what a terrible shame. I’m gutted. You have ruined my holiday. And how much notice did you need that I’d be joining you, anyway? Was a month not enough?”

Later, as I meandered through the souk, hopelessly lost, wondering if I would ever find my way back to my hotel, my phone stirred in my pocket once more. This time it was a call. From Mr Frog. Goodness only knows how much Orange would be charging me for the privilege, but I sighed and picked up anyway.

“Hi, how’s it going?”

“M’kay. I’m lost. I have no idea where my hotel is. But apart from that, fine… You?”

“Good. We’re just leaving the medina actually. Heading back to our hotel for a massage.”

“Ah. Happy finish?”

“Sorry?”

“Never mind,” I said, wondering if it was really possible he could have forgotten the Christmas dinner at my parents’ place where I had one too many G&T’s and somehow ended up on the subject of Prince Charles. I don’t recall the exact definition I supplied to my confused grandma, but I’m surprised the scene was forgettable.

“Listen,” he said, “I’m sorry about tonight. N had made a reservation somewhere really posh, and he tried to add you on, but couldn’t.” I made a face which I was glad he couldn’t see, and refrained from stating the obvious, i.e. that he had known I would be joining him for A Very Long Time and this was rather A Weak Excuse.

“No worries. I’m fixed for tonight. I’m eating in my hotel. Which is lovely, by the way…”

“Oh. Right. Because I was going to offer to come out with you instead. Just the two of us.”

I ponder. A ploy to get me on my own? No. I doubt it. We lunch on our own all the time. A ploy to not see me with his friends to minimise embarrassment and awkwardness? Perhaps. Utterly pathetic organisational skills and a rather half-hearted attempt to make amends? Most likely explanation.

“No. It’s fine. Really. You go out with your friends and I’ll eat in my hotel. Have a lovely holiday. And tell me if you get anything for Tadpole, so I don’t end up buying her the same thing.”

So folks, I’m afraid that is the story. A bit of an anti-climax for all concerned. And proof, if such a thing were needed, that people never change.

Mike Troubled Diva has had a Very Good Idea. He is compiling an anthology of funny blog posts written by UK based bloggers (and expat Brits) which will be assembled in one week flat, then sold via Lulu in honour of Comic Relief (all proceeds from the book, minus lulu print on demand costs will go to charity).

It’s a very good cause indeed and one which I am only too happy to support. So, I’ll have to dig out a post where I’m hopefully at least moderately funny (and not too long-winded) and get it sent to Mike quick smart. If you are a British blogger and would like to participate, details can be found here. And I’ll put up a link to the book as and when it’s finished.

Breakfast is served on the roof terrace of the Riad Watier. I emerge, still groggy from sleep, at around ten, and make my way upstairs. I have my book and my sunglasses but immediately regret not bringing my camera. The sky is a beautiful shade of periwinkle blue, the view over the rooftops to the Atlantic is spectacular, and the trade wind for which Essaouira is famous, the Alizée, is mercifully absent. The only other people at breakfast are a German mother and daughter; one scribbles, the other reads.

Essaouira is a breath (or gust) of fresh air after the dry heat and bustle of Marrakech. On the bus drive to the coast, parched earth gave way to greenery, red and ochre tones were replaced with whitewashed walls and blue shutters. The medina is small, helpfully laid out in a grid so I can’t get lost, and every single alleyway is named. I still attract a fair amount of attention when I wander around alone, especially in the evening when I eat out, but it’s tame in comparison and deliciously relaxing. I doubt the same can be said for the town in the summer months, but in March, it’s perfect.

A young woman with glossy dark hair brings my breakfast. Pancakes with syrup, yoghurt, freshly squeezed orange juice, bread, butter, jam and coffee. I tuck in, even though my stomach still feels leaden after the previous evening’s tajine. I don’t eat a lot of meat as a rule, but Morocco has been the exception. Lamb with prunes and almonds. Lamb with figs and walnuts. Chicken with lemons. Repeat to fade.

I pour coffee, and take a bite out of my first pancake, wondering what to do with my day. There isn’t much to visit in Essaouira, it’s just an attractive place to stroll around. I had been plotting a trip to a hammam, but I have a little sunburn on my neck and shoulders (which I only bared on the secluded roof terrace of my Marrakech hotel, I hasten to add) and the last thing I need is an over-enthusiastic scrubbing down with scratchy black olive soap and a sandpaper mitt. Other than that, my only firm plan is to eat lunch at one of the stalls by the port where you choose a freshly caught fish and take a seat at a trestle table while it is gutted, grilled and brought to your table with salad, bread, water and a handful of grilled prawns.

A flapping noise to my left startles me out of my food fantasy, and a seagull the size of a cat settles on the roof terrace wall, not a metre away from me. He (for the sake of argument, I’m no birdwatcher) calls to a friend in a raucous voice and is joined by another, slightly less attractive mottled seagull with a mean face. They stare at me, or at my breakfast, to be more accurate. I feel less relaxed. How fearless are they? Bold enough to snatch a piece of pancake from my plate, or indeed my hand? Those slightly hooked beaks look rather intimidating close up. The German ladies and their breakfast don’t seem to have attracted a seagull fan club. Don’t tell me even the seagulls single out lone female travellers in this country?

I pour myself some more coffee, hoping that the clanking of the thermos might frighten them away. It doesn’t. I try muttering “bugger off” under my breath, to no avail. I stare into the seagulls’ beady eyes with my very best Paddington stare. None of this makes a blind bit of difference. In fact, as soon as I set down my cup and open my book the seagull seizes the opportunity to up the ante, hopping onto the railing which tops the wall, opening his wings for a moment and striking a pose which looks decidedly more threatening.

Yikes.

I try flapping my book in his direction. The seagull stares at me scornfully. He mutters something uncomplimentary to his scraggy friend, who joins him on the railing. I take another bite out of my pancake. Somehow, under siege, it doesn’t taste quite so good.

It is when I glance over at the German ladies, casting around for backup, that he leaps onto the table. He lands squarely in front of my plate, only centimetres away from my face and that’s it. Enough. I panic.

“FUCK FUCK FUCK!” I cry, leaping out of my seat, my book raised in front of my face, knocking my plastic chair over backwards in my haste. The German ladies look up, impassive, then carry on with what they are doing as though nothing had happened.

Half and hour and three repeat confrontations later, I conclude that maybe Essaouira isn’t such a relaxing place after all.

I pour my second cup of mint tea. I haven’t quite mastered the technique the waiters use, pouring it into the glass from an impressive height without dripping scalding hot tea all over the table, so I adopt a more British approach. The tea is so sweet that I can feel the sugar coating my teeth. It’s lovely though. Very refreshing.

There aren’t many tables in the museum’s tearooms, so tourists cosy up next to one another. I am soon joined by a French family – a sullen teenage girl, her hen-pecked father and short-haired, leather-skinned mother. From their tans, I suspect they have been here a while, soaking up the sun by a pool in one of the hotels in the Ville Nouvelle, or perhaps at the Club Med just off Djemma El-Fna. They look as shell shocked from the souk as I felt on my first day. I’ve got a little more used to it now, especially since I learnt how to say “no thank you” in Arabic. But I still got lost again today, and when an alleyway brought me unexpectedly to the museum, I couldn’t resist making one last pit stop.

“Oh là là, partout c’est de l’arnaque,” laments leatherface to her husband. “Everywhere we turn people are trying to fleece us. In the souk. In the taxis. Even the mint tea here, I mean, 15 dirham is expensive.”

I hide my smile behind my guidebook. I suppose it’s all relative. 15 dirham (€ 1.50) seems a lot in comparison to a 3 dirham freshly squeezed orange juice on the main square, but really it’s peanuts. The taxi drivers are a pain, I’ll admit that. In the past three days I’ve only met one who was willing to put on his meter, as the law dictates. The trip to and from the Supratours coach station, where I bought my ticket to Essaouira cost me 20 dirhams one way, 30 dirhams back again. On the meter it would have cost 10. But I can’t be bothered to work myself into a lather about it. The sums involved are to small.

“Et puis le Monsieur là, le vieux, qui nous a reclamé de l’argent quand nous l’avons pris en photo…” continues leatherface. I take a sip of tea. I’ve had this experience too. People ask for money, or object strongly when you point a camera in their direction in this country, even if you are just trying to capture a busy street scene. Those who object do so on religious grounds, I think, although an exception seems to be made for the king, whose photo hung on a wall at Supratours. Now I think about it, the poscards I’ve seen for sale here all show close up views of mint tea glasses, details from buildings or pyramids of spices. Only in the modern art exhibition in the museum did I see some paintings of veiled women. I don’t want be accused of disrespect, so I’ve put my camera away.

My ears prick up when I hear English spoken on the table to my left. So far I’ve seen mostly French tourists, although there are lots of German couples in my hotel. A grey haired, linen-clad couple are seated at the next table sipping mint tea. The voice I heard belonged to the woman who has just zoned in on the spare seats opposite. Her husband approaches, brandishing two cans of coke with straws.

“What a relief to find this place,” he says as he plonks himself down. “How anyone can manage not to get lost in that souk I don’t know…” He voice has a faint Scottish burr.

“I can honestly say,” says Mr Linen, who sounds like a BBC broadcaster from the forties, “that I haven’t lost my bearings once.”

Either he’s lying, or he has a far better map than I do.

“Where are you staying?” says Mrs Linen in a friendly attempt to offset her husband’s smugness.

“Oh, out towards the Ville Nouvelle,” replies Mr Scot. “It’s a lovely place, but they lied about how far it is from the main square. You can’t walk it in ten minutes, it’s more like forty. Not that we mind though, the walk here takes us through the most beautiful gardens, it would be a shame to miss those.”

“Ah. You see, my wife and I don’t have time to waste walking,” says Mr Linen. “We’re staying in a riad, a traditional townhouse, right in the middle of the medina.” He pauses to pour his wife more tea, and frowns at the coke cans on the table as though they offend his sensibilities.

“Been on any excursions?” asks Mr Scot, undeterred. “We’ve just come back from a trip into the country. We went as far as the bottom of the Atlas mountains. Very impressive…”

“Yes. We went to the mountains too,” Mrs Linen says quickly, jumping in before her husband can answer. But there is no keeping this man down. He has to go one better.

“We went up as far as the snow,” he announces, smiling broadly.

Mr and Mrs Linen drain their glasses and take their leave, murmuring the usual meaningless pleasantries – “hope you enjoy the rest of your stay” “lovely to meet you,” – and leaving the Scottish couple alone to finish their drinks in peace.

I get up to go to the toilet, but as I pause to push a postcard into the letterbox by their table, I can’t resist a show of solidarity.

“I couldn’t help overhearing,” I say. “I’m surprised those two didn’t climb the Toubkal mountain! But then, he and his wife don’t have time to waste walking, do they?”

“Traffic’s diabolical,” says the taxi driver, by way of apology when he shows up ten minutes late to take Tadpole and me to the airport. “It’ll take us a good forty-five minutes to get to Orly…”

“No problem,” I reply, as though butter wouldn’t melt. “I’ve allowed plenty of time.” Forty-five minutes will give us an hour for check in, shopping for coffee and pain au chocolat, baggage scanning and temporary boot removal. I am a seasoned traveller. My feathers remain unruffled.

“Mummy, my tummy is hurting,” says Tadpole tugging at her strap.

“I’m sorry honey but you need to keep the strap fastened,” I say, convinced it is simply a thinly veiled escape attempt. Tummy ache is also her strategy of choice when faced with a plateful of broccoli. I know better than to take such complaints seriously.

* * * * * * * * * *

“My tummy is still hurting,” moans Tadpole.

“I’m sorry my sweet, but we’re nearly there. You’ll feel better soon. When we get out…”

The traffic on the motorway is fluid, and after crawling along the péripherique for the last fifty minutes we’re finally nearing the airport. Our driver is busy murmuring sweet nothings to his girlfriend. Or at least I assume that’s who he’s talking to. He’s wearing a headset. The car radio is tuned into Skyrock, a radio station which appears to consist of lots of shouting and very little music. A presenter with approximately two brain cells and a vocoder is calling random phone numbers and trying to frighten any small children who pick up the phone by pretending to be a monster. How irresponsible, I think to myself.

Tadpole coughs an ominous cough.

Some surprisingly efficient reflex kicks in and I grab the water bottle out of my open rucksack and remove the plastic bag I’d wrapped around it as a precaution, mindful of the fact that macbooks and moisture don’t mix, holding it just in front of Tadpole’s face.

Not a moment too soon.

The next ten minutes are spent trying to remove a foul-smelling paste consisting of bile, partially digested cornflakes and curdled milk from Tadpole’s jumper, dress and tights using one mini packet of Kleenex and a small amount of water. Miraculously the driver, deep in conversation, does not appear to have noticed our little mishap.

At Orly we pay, leap out of the cab and dash, heads down, through the driving rain into the terminal building, skidding to a halt in front of the bank of screens showing departure information.

Doncaster 10.15 desks 79-81. Embarquement!

Boarding? But it’s forty minutes until take off? Nonsense!

We dash to desks 79-81. That’s odd, there’s nobody there. Back to the monitors. Which definitely say desks 79-81. Huh? I flag down a nice uniformed lady who informs us that no, the information on the monitor is not incorrect. The reason there is no-one there is that check-in has CLOSED.

I hear a ringing in my ears and feel rather unsteady on my feet.

At the Thomsonfly desk a few moments later a nice uniformed man rings up to see if there is any way he can get the desperate lady with the dishevelled hair and wild eyes and her slightly puke-encrusted toddler onto the flight.

He cannot.

“MumOhMyGodWe’veMissedTheFlightTheyWon’tLetUsOn,” I howl into my telephone. “AndThere’sNoSpaceOnTheNextOneTomorrowWhatAreWeGoingToDo?”

If Tadpole were older she would know that when mummy is hysterical (and yes, I love the etymology of that word, which plants all blame squarely on my womb) she needs to be slapped smartly on the cheeks in order to be brought to her senses. In the meantime, I just have to Get A Grip. All On My Own. Deep breaths.

One change of clothes for Tadpole, one double espresso, several hundred euros and an airport transfer to Charles de Gaulle later and Tadpole and I board a flight to Leeds. I spend the entire journey fighting off the urge to order a stiff drink (lest my readers stage an intervention and commit me to the Priory) and trying not to be convinced that since bad things always occur in threes, my luggage is unlikely to be on board.

“Mummy, can you make me some couettes?” Tadpole pleads.

As I part her curls into two vaguely similar sized bunches, I notice a partially digested piece of cornflake I had missed earlier.

It is heart-shaped.

Once upon a time I had a schoolfriend who was incapable of eating bananas in public without first breaking them into small pieces with her fingers. I remembered that rather random fact today when describing my antics in the Club Med Gym (which I still call the Gymnase Club, because I’m old school, me, and set in my ways) to a friend over lunch.

“So, how often do you actually go?” she asked, picking at the huge slice of apple crumble she’d ordered. I nursed my espresso, feeling virtuous for turning down dessert, but also rather jealous.

“Oh, three times a week at the moment while I ease into the routine,” I replied. “Then I’ll see if I can bear to go more often, maybe take some classes.”

“Bear to go more often?”

“Well yes, it’s not exactly a pleasure. More a necessity. I’ve always been rather anti-sport, as you know…”

Anti-sport may be something of an understatement. I haven’t changed much since I vowed never to enter the sports hall at sixth form college. Or university. The rubbery odour of a sports shop is enough to make me wrinkle my nose in distaste, so crossing the threshold of the Club Med changing rooms requires a supreme effort of will. The only thing which makes the whole entreprise remotely bearable is my latest purchase: a tiny, clippy iPod shuffle, which makes it possible for me to block out my surroundings and lose myself in electronica while I cross country ski or climb seventy flights of stairs.

“The worst thing,” I confided, “is cleaning off the machines after you’ve used them.” Unable to restrain myself any longer, I seized my coffee spoon and stole a mouthful of crumble with crème anglaise.

My friend looked rather puzzled. “But surely it’s your sweat you are wiping?”

“Yes, but that’s not the problem” I said, setting down my spoon so I could mime the cleaning action with my right hand.

Imagine, if you will, a petite anglaise who has just finished her fifteen minutes on the stepper machine. Not just any stepper machine mind, but the one directly located under an air conditioning vent, my machine of choice. For some reason, French girls who go to the gym never break a sweat and rarely turn an attractive shade of beetroot, like I am wont to do. In order to blend in better, and draw fewer horrified stares, I always try to work out in the coolest part of the room.

By my side a lithe young man in tight shorts is hard at it. Something about his zeal for butt tightening and his choice of attire makes me think that it may not be for the benefit of a lady. Unless of course he is one those meetic boys who likes to claim that his most attractive attributes are “ses fesses”. He watches as I dismount and stagger over to the paper towel dispenser a few metres away, squirt some white, slightly opaque soap onto the tissue, and proceed to clean the first handle, gripping its girth firmly within my open palm and sliding the lubricated tissue up and down.

It suddenly occurs to me how this looks, and when I move on to the second handle I find it impossible not to smirk as I rub. The fact that my iPod has just opted for an explicit little track by “Peaches” has tipped me over the edge.

Disposing of my spent paper towel, I return to grab my tap water-filled Evian bottle and my decidedly unluxurious Club Med towel, turning to face my audience as I do so.

“It’s all in the wrist action,” I say, with a smile, before turning on my heel and heading off in the direction of the showers.

While I am puzzled not to see the likes of the lovely and very talented Anna Boat or the side-splittingly funny and rather dashing JonnyB in the British category, and let’s be honest, a little disappointed not to make the shortlist myself, I would ask you to step this way and consider casting your vote for:

Best European blog: Le Blagueur à Paris. This is my best friend and partner in crime Meg – she of the can of beer concealed in pantyhose incident – and her blog is both wickedly funny and terrifyingly well written.

Best UK blog: A Beautiful Revolution. Another very good friend of mine, amazingly talented bloke. He doodles! He writes! He takes very pretty photos! He gets a bit melancholy sometimes, too, so you never know, your votes might even cheer him up.

I’m currently in the UK doing family things, back in Paris with Tadpole tomorrow. Normal service will resume shortly.

In the meantime, perhaps I could enlist your help over here?

Other blogs which are, in my opinion, deserving of your support can be found in my sidebar.

I’ve never won a bloggie. Two years ago I was nominated in the “best new blog” category, up against defamer, which was clearly a flattering but doomed state of affairs. Last year I dropped off the Best European shortlist during the panel voting round, so I couldn’t even try to give Zed a run for her tiara.

Perhaps 2007 will be my year?

I’ve been rather quiet of late, I realise, and this has much to do with the fact that I have to pause to cough approximately every thirty seconds and that makes most endeavours Extremely Tiresome Indeed. The worst things, I find, are cleaning my teeth and reading bedtime stories. I’m guaranteed to go into a paroxysm of noisy, eye watering coughing within seconds of inserting a toothbrush or attempting the opening sentence of “Mog’s Christmas”.

And while my French is pretty convincing these days in most situations not involving the word “frog”, I do find it tends to let me down when talking about prescription drugs and ailments. Some progress has undoubtedly been made since that fateful day a decade ago when I had an entire chemist’s shop in fits of laughter after earnestly explaining that I was suffering from a small British songbird. But there are gaping holes in my pharmaceutical vocabulary, all the same.

On Saturday, having finished swigging my Tesco chesty cough syrup from the bottle, I decided to brave one of the six pharmacies within a 100 metre radius of my apartment. Naturally I chose the one with the most attractive male assistant.

“Bonjour,” I said with a smile. “J’aimerais un sirop contre la toux.” I delved into my mind for the French for a chesty cough, but drew a blank. A dry cough is most definitely a “toux sèche”, but is a chesty cough a “toux grasse”? The phrase conjured up a rather unattractive, greasy mental image so I decided against it.

“C’est quel type de toux?” enquired the attractive young gentleman, as I knew he would. The simplest course of action would probably have been to give a short, spontaneous demonstration at this juncture, but for the first time that day I found myself unable to perform.

“Euh. Ce n’est pas une toux sèche. Ca vient vraiment des poumons…” I replied, paraphrasing hopefully, although I’m guessing that few types of cough don’t involve lungs.

“Les bronches, vous voulez dire?” Ah, pardon me, not my lungs, my bronchial tubes. Where ailments are concerned in French, the more technical the term, the better. This is after all the country where a common cold is referred to as a rhinopharyngite.

“Oui. Je vais voir un médecin si ça persiste… c’est un peu dégueulasse.” Oh, how I wished I could have taken that last comment back, on the grounds that it constituted too much information. But no, it was too late, he was now going to pursue another line of questioning and seek to ascertain the precise colour of my phlegm.

“Ah, c’est coloré?”

“Oui, effectivement,” I stuttered, mortified. I should have stuck with “toux grasse”. Why in god’s name didn’t I trust my instincts and go with “toux grasse”?

I took the bottle and inspected it. No codeine, more’s the pity.

“Je peux vous proposer autre chose aussi,” added the attractive pharmacist. I eyed him suspiciously. An expectorant suppository perhaps? Some sea water to squirt up my nose?

A few minutes later, my wallet considerably lighter, I stepped back out into the drizzle and inspected my purchase dejectedly. Nose drops. Water, bicarbonate of soda and some parabens for good measure. A carcinogenic cocktail to “pulverise” my nostrils with, four times a day.

If the attractive pharmacist hadn’t scrawled his phone number on the back of the receipt, I think I would have wept.

On Tuesday, Mr Frog drove me to Ikea so I could kit out my new office space. As always, when we are together, it doesn’t take long for us to remember why we split up in the first place. In this instance my near hysteria when I called him at 8am to wail that RenaultRent didn’t actually have the vehicle I reserved on the internet (and hadn’t bother to phone and advise me of the fact) reminded him of all the times I’d gone off the deep end in the past over trivial matters.

“Look. I’ve just woken up and I don’t need to hear this right now,” said Mr Frog groggily. “Call me when you’ve found another van.”

Once upon a time, that exchange would have deteriorated into some sort of fight, but not any more. Now he’s just a friend who has kindly offered to do me a favour, and must be treated accordingly. When one of us gets annoyed, all we have to do is walk away. A much healthier state of affairs for all concerned.

Later that day, tearing along the A1 motorway towards Paris Nord II, the atmposphere is relaxed, radio Nova is playing, and we are swapping Tadpole stories.

“Has she done that song for you, the one with the actions about Monsieur Grenouille?” I take special care over the word “grenouille” which is the single most difficult word for an anglophone to pronounce in the French language, in my opinion.

“Yes, the Mr Frog song. Very appropriate, I thought,” my own Mr Frog says with a smile. “Oh, that reminds me, I have something to tell you that you might want to use in your blog…”

“Okaaay…?”

“Well, I didn’t tell you this before, but I’ve been on meetic. I took out a four month trial subscription to see what it was like a while back, no photo or anything, I wasn’t going to mention it to you… But then yesterday I got an email from them with twenty profiles of women that might interest me. And yours was the first one in the list! How weird is that?”

“Wow. I don’t know whether that is proof of how well it works, or the opposite. Did you look at my profile? Or send me a tease? I haven’t logged in for ages, so I wouldn’t know…”

“No, I didn’t open it up, it didn’t feel right.”

The conversation moves onto other things. The girl he is going to visit. Tadpole’s bowel movements. Christmas presents. The day is a success, all in all: everything I need is in stock, we have a pleasant lunch in the Ikea cafeteria together and get back to Belleville in plenty of time to unload before school pick up time.

That night, nursing a lemsip and watching junk TV on my laptop in bed, the meetic story pops back into my mind. I’d pretty much given up on online dating. But, I reason, if there are people even half as cool as Mr Frog out there, it might just be worth swinging by for one last look.

I recently realised that I have a neighbour, a fellow bellevillois, who is also a blogger. A blogger, a Brit, parent of a toddler and a writer, no less. When we met for a coffee the other week in a bobo haunt near Jourdain, after covering the usual ground (work avoidance strategies, the art of procrastination, headlice), he mentioned that he and his co-author of The Unofficial Guide to Windows Vista were planning a “virtual blog tour” to promote their book, due to be published by Wiley early next year, and he actually had the gall to ask me whether he could stop off chez petite on his tour.

I usually turn down such requests, because the content would stick out like a sore thumb slotted in between a slice of life and a serving of self-indulgent navel gazing, but he must have caught me when my guard was down, probably something to do with the fact that it was before 9am.

“I suppose I could sacrifice a little of my blog integrity for a friend, and a free café crème or two,” I said.

So, without further ado, I will put you into the hands of Mr Stuart Blethers.

Being a good (i.e. controlling) parent

Thanks for letting me visit your blog. I promise to do my best not to get too boring and technical and chase away all your readers.

I want to talk about children and computers, and more specifically about how we can be good parents and stop the little brats from having too much fun with our PCs. Now that Tadpole has discovered the web, it won’t be long before you have to rely on something a little more sophisticated than the fact she’s too young to read to restrict the kind of content she can access.

Fortunately, Windows Vista, the new version of the Microsoft operating system that is about to be released in the next few days, comes with a nice little feature called Parental Controls that lets Mums and Dads like you and me dictate exactly what our offspring can get up to when they’re preventing us from using our own computers.

With the Parental Controls feature, you can:

• Control what websites your child can and cannot visit – Charlie and Lola, yes; porn and warez, no.
• Specify what days and times your child can use the computer – no more than an hour on school nights, and a little longer at the weekend.
• Set rules based on ratings, content, or title to decide what games your child can play.
• Keep a virtual eye on what your child is up to with activity reports that provide details of her online activity.

There’s an interesting article on the Windows Vista Community website that goes into more detail about Parental Controls if you want to find out more.

Of course, the key to ensuring that our children use computers sensibly and safely is to talk to them about it. But using technology to help set a few boundaries can also come in handy.

– Stuart Mudie, co-author of The Unofficial Guide to Windows Vista

That was relatively painless, wasn’t it? I should compromise my integrity more often…

Please send your bribes/free stuff to petite.anglaise@gmail.com.

The agent immobilier motions me through the tiled entrance hall and out into a paved yard with a balcony, which looks out onto the back of a nearby school of architecture, which is slightly downhill. The courtyard is bathed in light, even on this rather grey, uninspiring day, with its small droplets of rain which mist my glasses and make the whole world look foggy. The residents have decorated the courtyard with a ramshackle assortment of potted plants. Perfect.

Beckoning me through a door onto a narrow staircase, we climb two flights of stairs and he throws open the door.

I fall in love.

The main room is freshly painted, with a wooden floor and exposed beams across the ceiling. It is filled with light and the window looks across the courtyard we just crossed. There is a brand new kitchenette, with two hobs and a mini-bar sized fridge, just like in my first ever Parisian apartment. A tiny shower room and toilet (and it’s not even a chemical toilet, the estate agents is at pains to point out) open off the kitchen, in a room the size of a cupboard.

Of the three studios I have visited this week, this is the one. I want it, desperately. I can picture a spacious desk placed just so, by the window. A sofa bed in the corner, a large leafy plant. An uncluttered, bright, empty space where there is nothing to distract me (possibly not even the internet!) It will be my retreat, my writing place, but also the hotel petite anglaise, where good friends can come and stay at weekends. The home I share with Tadpole will become just that, the place where I relax. Where the computer once dominated my living room/bedroom/office, there will now be space for an adult sized dining table.

And so I go back to the agency, and take out all my paperwork: contract from publishers (in English), the compulsory electricity bill (why this document is so sacred I do not know, because the EDF never ask for proof of identity before opening an account), a photocopy of my carte de séjour. I explain that renting makes perfect sense for me, right now, as I can expense it, and add that I will obtain a bank guarantee, in order to reassure the proprietor, lest he throw up his hands in despair at the lack of the usual payslips. I hope that I will be seen as an attractive tenant, a stable, quiet individual who won’t even sleep there, who won’t mess up their freshly painted walls or really do much “living”.

Now I sit beside the phone and pray that I will get the call to say it is mine, and soon.

I was poised to write a comment in response to this post, fully expecting to unearth the usual “suppository porn stories” and “secretary spanked boss” or “stapler of death” queries which are pretty much a constant. But as I scrolled through the search terms for other amusing examples, the findings were often puzzling, sometimes poignant and, well, I decided they merited a mini-post of their own.

Now I know that google is for many of us the first port of call in a crisis, a place where one can find the answer to many of the questions we would have asked our mother or doctor. When Tadpole took it upon herself to swallow a pebble a few months ago, I typed in all manner of queries about “swallowed foreign objects” before reaching for the telephone to call Mr Frog (who has a couple of friends who are GP’s), then my mum.

So it is not too surprising to see people asking the all-knowing google algorithm for answers to questions like:

• can the musty spider pushchair be used from birth?
• my boyfriend wears my knickers is he gay?

But, having said that, it never occured to me to use google for relationship counselling.

• How to heal your broken heart after a divorce?
• Can you break soul ties and remain friends?
• Why won’t he marry me after 13 years?
• How to imitate my husband’s voice to fool his girlfriend?

There I was trawling through the stats looking for funnies, and instead, rather unexpectedly, I found myself empathising; feeling other people’s pain.

There was only one question I did feel equipped to answer, and it may be the subject of a forthcoming post, one day.

how to talk dirty in French?

However, being the sort of person who is more likely to say “is it in yet?” or “ouch, that’s starting to chafe” than “come here big boy”, I suspect “petite’s guide to bedroom French” may not be quite what the googlers had in mind.

This article was published in the Paris section of weekly news magazine The Nouvel Observateur today. The interview actually took place in early September, if I remember correctly, and the photographer popped round to see me at home a few weeks later.

A bit of a character, he started by telling me that he thought all the pictures which had been used by the English press – with the exception of the one used by the Guardian – had been hideous and aged me approximately ten years.

I was inclined to agree, most had been taken under sweltering sun, in the middle of the day, when the light conditions were at their most unforgiving and I could do little more than squint at the camera with a furrowed brow. I also suspect that the editors specifically picked photos where I looked mildly annoyed (with the photographer, because I hated every minute of leaning in unnatural poses against pillars, trees and balcony railings) because they matched the story (annoyed with my former employer).

Mr Obs Photographer said his “Fait Divers” page tended to be a little artier, and that he was looking for something which summed up my personality, and my blog, and liked to keep snapping away until he got precisely what he wanted. I posed, awkwardly, in the room which serves as my living room/bedroom/study for approximately two hours, until I finally begged him to leave, at the end of my patience. The pictures taken seated in front of my computer, I could understand. Those photos which showed my bookcase in the background, ditto. But the ones taken against a backdrop of scarlet sheets, I admit to having some reservations about.

It was only when the photographer was on the verge of leaving that I finally understood what the “scarlet woman” sequence had been about.

“The thing that really struck me when I looked at your blog,” he said, in French, “was the fact that you said you have been living dans le péché.”

I giggled. The penny (or centime) had finally dropped.

“Living in sin is an English phrase which just means that I wasn’t married,” I clarified.

“Oh!” he said, clearly crestfallen.

I don’t know if I dare imagine what he thought “vivre dans le péché” might mean, but the result of his misunderstanding makes quite a nice picture, I think.

I am beginning to rue the day that I allowed Tadpole to sit on my white chair, adjusted to its highest setting, and taught her how to use a mouse. Within minutes, with the help of the CBeebies website and, in particular, the Teletubbies section, Tadpole had grasped not only how to move the location of the arrow around on the screen, but also how to click. Mastery of click and drag was not far behind.

Suddenly a whole new virtual world was open to her, where she was able to colour in pictures without getting felt tip pen on her fingers and sleeves, play simple interactive games and navigate freely around children’s websites, only coming unstuck if she accidentally executed a right click and was suddenly faced with an incomprehensible grey menu (she can’t read yet) or if she had the misfortune to select a game which required use of the arrow keys (a leap too far, at the moment).

On that first day, I sat patiently by her side, showing her what to do, where to click, and generally giving her encouragement. We built an adventure playground with Bob the Builder, watched a Dora The Explorer adventure and sang with the Tweenies. On the second day, I opened a book and had a sneaky read while she clicked away by my side, looking up once in a while to check that she hadn’t strayed from her CBeebies playground, to, say, buy a car on ebay, or delete a string of comments from my blog. On the third day I let her loose on the internet whilst I made her dinner next door, popping back in whenever her yelp of frustration indicated that she had got herself stuck somewhere and couldn’t work out how to navigate back to the main menu.

But on the fourth day, parental pride and the novelty of having something new to bribe her with (“you can have a go on the computer, but only if you are a good girl”) gave way frustration, jealousy and a whole host of jittery withdrawal symptoms.

“Ping,” goes the sound of an incoming message on gmail chat, in another firefox tab, tantalisingly invisible.

“Sweetie, can mummy look at her message? That noise means there’s a message…”

“NO! I clicking! I not finished yet,” says Tadpole in a voice which leaves little room for debate.

I pace around the apartment, trying hard to contain my curiosity, wondering whether the message was from a friend or an admirer. What have I missed?

“How about mummy puts the Mr Men on the television?” I suggest, finally convinced I have hit on a viable alternative to clicking.

“No. I want to play Mr Men on the comPUter! Not the television. I want to CLICK!” replies Tadpole, remembering the official website where she had watched Mr Greedy and guests having a birthday food fight.

I retire, crestfallen, to the kitchen to make a calming cup of tea and plot my next move. I don’t think I had realised until now just how often I sneak a couple of minutes to check my email, my comments, or have a quick chat, but now, suddenly, my daughter has the power to cut me off from the outside world for half an hour at a time. Now, every time my fingers so much as stretch towards the keyboard, a little person drops whatever she is doing, a leg is flung over mine, and she tries to clamber onto my knee, comandeers the mouse with her small fingers and refuses to relinquish it.

Finally, Tadpole has found my achilles heel. God help me.

“I’ve got a 45 minute window of opportunity this weekend,” I write, “so I’ll be at the café on the corner of the Square Bolivar from 3:30, and if I see you there, great, if I don’t, no worries.”

It is my weekend with Tadpole, so, as a rule, I only see friends with children Tadpole’s age, or occasionally a girlfriend, for lunch or a stroll in the park. The only respite comes during her scheduled Music Appreciation Class, which takes place on Saturday afternoons at a nearby Centre de Loisirs. Even that might not actually happen, as there is something not quite right with Tadpole at the moment: a temperature which flares up every few days without any other discernible symptoms, troubled sleep, frequent nightmares and odd mood swings. But when the time comes, Little Miss Stubborn insists she wants to go. I am rather relieved.

By 4 p.m. I’ve given up on seeing him, engrossed in my book, an empty coffee cup by my side. A man at a neighbouring table hurls unwanted ice cubes from his empty glass towards the gutter and misses, hitting a parked car with a clatter, much to my amusement. The culprit catches my eye; I see panic flicker across his face, momentarily.

“Ce n’est pas votre voiture, j’espère?” he says, gesturing towards the car with his bottle of juice.

“Non, non. Vous en faites pas…” I reply with a grin.

As I return nose to book, I’m vaguely conscious of a stocky figure crossing my line of vision and glance sideways in surprise, wondering what would possess a stranger to choose the seat directly next to mine when there are so few customers this afternoon. But it is my friend, trying to make me jump out of my skin, and I set my book down with a smile.

The page was turned long ago, but I still feel a rush of affection. I’m drawn to his wit, his mannerisms; it’s hard to resist the temptation to touch his glossy dark hair. Often, when I see someone I once cared about, I can no longer see that magic thing which made them, fleetingly, so attractive, causing me to seriously question the wisdom of my judgements. But in this case I still feel an irresistible pull, a fact I find reassuring. Setting my foot on my chair, I clasp my arms around my bent knee in a pose which is meant to be nonchalant, casual, but is probably textbook defensive body language.

Tadpole’s music class is already drawing to a close, so I decide to fetch my daughter and bring her back to the café for a few minutes, praying she will behave. Approaching, my hand in hers, I suddenly feel confused about how to act. Being with someone who is unaccustomed to seeing me as a mother has thrown me. I’m used to keeping the two spheres of my life completely separate; leading a compartmentalised life. When the two overlap, I suddenly find I no longer know how to behave. I regain my seat, self-consciously; Tadpole positions herself opposite, doodling in my diary with a pencil.

It soon becomes clear that any semblance of adult conversation is now futile: Tadpole’s charm offensive has begun. Mis-hearing my friend’s name, and oblivious to our corrections, she calls him “Angel”. And she will not leave poor Angel alone. First come the questions. A barrage of. Next, she jumps down from her seat and sidles up to him, purposefully, flashing her brightest smile. Not one to beat around the bush, moments later she begs him for a hug (duly administered, albeit a little stiffly), a kiss (less successful) and on the walk home she insists on holding his hand. The icing on the cake, when he pops in to inspect my new flat, is my daughter using him as a climbing frame (foot almost, but not quite, connecting with family jewels), and counters our protests by crying “but my daddy lets me do that?!”

I feel painfully awkward on “Angel’s” behalf, wondering what he is thinking. Either he is wondering how to extricate himself from the situation, but too polite to make his excuses and slip away, or he is genuinely enjoying Tadpole’s attentions. I have no idea which.

As for the “daddy” comment, is it inevitable that every man Tadpole meets in my company will be seen by her as a surrogate father? The thought saddens, but also terrifies me.

When he leaves, a departure I have engineered on the pretext of a errand we need to run before dinner time,Tadpole howls her disappointment, but I feel only relief.

Finally I can shrug off the self-consciousness and get back to the business of just being a mother.

Now, this isn’t a proper post, but forgive me, I just want to harness the power of the interweb for a moment to help me make a momentous (and currently theoretical) decision.

 or  

I like both, because they are pretty. And powerful. And lithe. But I’m sure there are other criteria I haven’t even thought of.

Main functions: pretending to write book in internet cafés/on the go, when in fact chatting on gmail. Playing Mr Men DVD’s for Tadpole on train journeys. And yes, I realise I won’t exactly be pushing either of these to the limits, but, well, I deserve a nerdtastic little present, don’t I?

For once, I’m actually soliciting your advice.

Tadpole has been going to school in Belleville for less than a month, and she is already speaking the language of the ‘hood, apparently.

I would like to point out that the distinctly meaty sniff you will hear was courtesy of my daughter.

On April 27th, after receiving my marching orders, I dashed home. Once I’d spoken to three different men who were, or had been, important in my life, I cried for a while. Trying to pluck up the courage to call my parents, because I was worried (needlessly) that they would be angry with me for losing my job, I turned to my computer and started emailing anyone and everyone who I thought might be able to help. One such email went out to a few key people, some of whom I had met, others virtual acquaintances, and the gist of it was “I need a good employment lawyer”.

One of the first to reply was Colin Randall, French Bureau Chief of the Daily Telegraph. We had never met, he had simply linked to my blog a couple of times, and I had emailed him briefly to say hello. Colin wasn’t sure whether he had any useful contacts in the legal profession, but he did want to meet me. He felt sure that my story would be of interest to his readers.

We met soon afterwards, chatted over a bottle of wine. I joked afterwards that the alcohol must have been intended to loosen my tongue, but the fact was that until I had consulted a press lawyer, I wasn’t even sure I would let any story run. Even after I’d received the green light from my lawyer, I still kept Colin hanging on until shortly after my contract had officially ended in early July, and he respected my wishes. Throughout that trying time, he kept in touch regularly to see how I was doing.

When the story broke on July 18th, Colin fielded calls from other journalists and passed me the details; gave me advice about what it would be wise to accept or decline. I don’t think I could have navigated my way through those murky waters – in the middle of moving house (!) – without his help.

Last week I received a shocking text message which made me gasp when I read it: “My turn to get fired.” I had read about rounds of redundancies at The Telegraph, but I knew Colin’s blog was the most popular on the newspaper’s website, and never dreamed for a second that his name would come up.

Colin’s final post has just been published here. I would like to wish Colin well for whatever the future holds, and will be offering a little assistance in sprucing up his new, and hopefully temporary abode at blogspot.

I hope I haven’t jinxed any one else?

I saw this advert on the métro today and had to giggle.

[insert crude jokes in the comment box]

Yesterday was my Tadpole free evening and so I clambered aboard the number 26 bus and took myself off to the cinema at the Bassin de la Villette. There I bought a ticket (tarif chomeur, for now) and slunk into the café to scavenge for something filling to wolf down beforehand, imperative if I was to curb my tummy’s protests for the duration of the film. I fancied a panini, maybe a toastissimo, something warm and crunchy oozing carbs and cheesy cholesterol. But it was not to be. Instead, safe in the knowledge that they were protected by a pane of glass, an unappetising array of cold sandwiches and tired salads gave me the finger.

For a moment I wished I was in England, where stop-gap food can be something of an art form. In France, snacking is an activity so frowned upon that little is done to encourage it. In the case of the Mk2 cinema, the dire quality of the café fare can probably also be attributed to the fact that next door, in the same complex, is a proper, pricey restaurant with real cutlery, porcelain plates and glassware. The ploy almost worked, but time was short, my film due to start in twenty minutes, and last time I ate there, the service was nonchalant, to say the least.

I made off, dejectedly, with a slice of reheated goat’s cheese pizza on a paper plate, a plastic knife and fork, and sat on the terrasse watching a gimmicky little boat ferry people between the two cinemas on opposite banks of the canal St Martin.

The food may have disappointed, but the film was pure delight. A gem. I laughed out loud until tears rolled down my cheeks. I vowed never to enter Tadpole in a beauty pageant. I cringed and squirmed thoughout the “superfreak” dance routine, hands clapped over my mouth to stifle my whimpering.

As the credits rolled there were cheers and a spontaneous burst of applause. I joined in, grinning widely, exchanged a “c’était génial, hein?” with a complete stranger.

They may not be much cop at snack food, but the French really do know how to appreciate a film. Together.

Yesterday I was mostly being held hostage by Miguel, Fatima and their impressive array of power tools. After a somewhat unusual Monday in London, which will forever be imprinted on my memory as the day I ate fish and chips for elevensies, lunch in Hospital, was served delicate amuse-bouche French pastries an hour later, and a full afternoon tea at four, being subjected to several hours of ear-splitting drilling and jigsawing was something of a brutal jolt back to reality.

“VROOOOOAAAAAHHH” growled the drill, as I tried (but failed) to read in the next room. An image formed in my head of a bullet hole in a shop window, a web of cracks fanning out from the entry point in all directions. Superhuman strength of will was required to remain where I was and refrain from inspecting the floor to ceiling kitchen tiles for damage.

Miguel called to Fatima (expertly assembling furniture in the next room with her electric screwdriver and clearly the brains of the operation) and a sliver of fear slid down my spine. The urgency in his voice was carefully dosed so that his partner would down tools immediately and rush to his aid, but the customer would not rush in or grab the phone and start dialing the pompiers. Something had clearly been botched, but I gritted my teeth and opted for the “ignorance is bliss” approach.

“We’ll be back soon, and finished by four,” were the words Miguel tossed cheerfully over his shoulder as they headed out for lunch, at 11.30am. As I had entrusted Mr Frog with one set of keys for emergencies, another to a friend who is in town, I realised that effectively I was now a prisoner in my own apartment. There was no means of preparing any lunch for myself in this war zone, so I dashed out to fetch junk food. There is a reason why people generally eat kebabs a) after midnight and b) after four pints of lager and I will bear this in mind if I am tempted to repeat this sorry experience in the future.

Of course I needn’t have hurried. The power tools remained downed until a little before 2pm, when the terrible two returned, slightly sheepish, and resumed work. At 3.30pm Miguel was called away to another chantier for “a couple of hours”, leaving Fatima to soldier on in his absence. I collected Tadpole from school, took a detour around the park; anything to keep her away from the saw blades and splinters which littered her bedroom floor. The doorbell finally rang at 6.30pm and I began to harbour some hope that it would all be over before Tadpole’s bedtime.

A glance inside the kitchen an hour later revealed Miguel and Fatima spooning in a most unorthodox position whilst he demonstrated how to plumb in the sink. At 8pm I wrote a fat cheque and heaved a sigh of relief.

“Mr Builder and Little Miss Builder are gone now?” enquired Tadpole, momentarily pulling her eyes away from the television screen at the sound of the front door slamming shut.

“Yes, it’s all done. We’ve got a lovely new kitchen, look!”

Tadpole padded into the kitchen, disappeared, then returned, carrying a pot of magnetic letters.

“Come on mummy, we have to put these back first, on the frigo, and then it will finished,” she explained.

I arranged the lower case multi-coloured letters into a series of comical expletives and started to feel much better.

Something tells me 34 is going to be the perfect age…

Monday 4 September was the very first time that the words la rentrée were charged with special significance for me. My daughter has talked of nothing else since Spring, when she first visited her future école maternelle. Aged 3, like all little French children, Tadpole has already started school.

Of course at that age, it’s not about discipline and copying things off the blackboard. It’s more like a playgroup, with different activities going on within the classroom: a reading corner, a (toy) kitchen corner, the teacher doing some sort of drawing or counting with a small group, her assistant keeping watch over the other fifteen or so children who are more or less left to their own devices. But there will be communal eating in the canteen to adjust to, and in a room adjoining the classroom there are toddler-sized bunk beds where the children will have their nap in the afternoon. It’s beyond the reach of my imagination to visualise twenty toddlers going to sleep at once in the same room. Twenty toddlers who are only just out of nappies, and, well, accidents will happen. Rather la maîtresse than me.

Monday morning, Mr Frog rings the doorbell five minutes earlier than expected. Like me, he has been pacing his apartment, feeling rather emotional at the prospect of our Tadpole reaching this important milestone. We take a look at one another’s tense faces and laugh nervously. Tadpole, on the other hand, is impatience personified, scrambling into her coat and shouting “come on mummy, we got to go now…”

As we walk down the hill, Mr Frog and I exchange worst case scenarios.

“You know that thing she does where she she takes a crotte de nez* and holds her finger out, with the crotte on the end of it, and expects us to take it off her?” Mr Frog says.

“Oh my god, yes. I really hope she doesn’t do that to the teacher,” I reply. Trying not to sound like I’m accusing him of teaching her this charming behaviour, I add an innocent “where on earth can she have learnt that anyway? She looks oddly proud of herself…”

We both fervently hope that there will be no toilet incidents. I have a shoebox tucked under my arm with a change of clothes, all dutifully named, au cas où, but still, I’d rather they remained there unsolicited, all term.

Tadpole barely makes eye contact as we wave goodbye and turn to leave her classroom. She is already pottering in the toy kitchen with a really cute Asian girl whose name I can’t pronounce. I look at the other wailing, distraught children clinging to their parents and feel ever so slightly smug at how easy Tadpole is making this for us.

Of course I should have known I wouldn’t get off that lightly.

Because when I come to fetch her, both on Monday, and today, it is upon seeing me that the waterworks and histrionics begin. The long, high pitched scream of doom. The stamped foot. The “No No NO mummy I want to stay at school!” The source of her disappointment is simple: canteen and napping start next week; this week, school is just a collection of three hour morning sessions. Not long enough for my daughter. Adaptation is for pussies, in her opinion.

I put on my best poker face, striving not to look perturbed by her performance, when in fact I’m petrified that every other parent (currently being joyfully reunited with offspring who leap into their arms for bear hugs) is thinking “how awful must things be at home for a child to want to stay at school.”

And to top it off, today I found my daughter in the classroom doorway, arm outstreched, a crotte bejewelled index finger slowly but surely travelling in the direction of her teacher. I pounced with my tissue before anyone was the wiser but clearly, it’s only a matter of time.

So when Tadpole asked me this evening, as she does at least fifty times a day at the moment, “which of the Mr Men are you, mummy?” I answered, without hesitation: “Mr Worry”.

At least I got a picture out of it.

*crotte = a versatile noun which can be used to describe any undesirable bodily by-product, whether it originates from the nose, the bottom, or the corner of one’s eye. In this case, I hasten to add, from the nose.

Almost forgot to mention this, but BBC Radio Four have a new series called “Meet the Bloggers” which aired for the first time this morning, featuring one of my favourite bloggers/people Anna.

Future programmes (airing Tuesdays, 9.30 am and also available on the website) take in blogs as varied as GoFugYourself (looking forward to that one) and Instapundit. Oh and, ahem, petite anglaise is featured next Tuesday, alongside Zoe Twat – on the programme dedicated to personal blogs. It will be very odd to hear a Radio Four actor reading extracts of my posts…

I have a soft spot for this particular interview(er), as I was contacted to participate before I was fired, although the interview did actually take place a few days afterwards, in early May.

• Awoke to the sound of a microwave revving up only centimetres away from my head. Apparently my neighbour’s noisiest appliance is located just to the left of my pillow. Oh joy.
• Put up wall lights in Tadpole’s bedroom before breakfast, so excited was I at the prospect of being free to use the drill, now that she was with Mr Frog and unable to wail “please mummy, stop that TERRIBLE noise!”
• Was slightly disconcerted to note, when switching electricity back on, that bedroom lightswitch alternated between the two lights instead of switching them both on and off at the same time. Unscrewed lightbulbs. Started to worry that the electrics in the new flat are not all that.
• Took delivery of an entire Ikea kitchen (courtesy of grandma anglaise). No idea when it will be fitted, so will be spending the foreseeable future surrounded by cardboard boxes.
• Spent half an hour queuing in the post office to collect my MODEM and then raced home to connect myself to the INTERNET for a long awaited fix, and to fill in my somewhat overdue ASSEDIC monthly report.
• Met Belle Maman for the first time since Mr Frog and I broke up. Watched as Tadpole proudly showed off her new room; hovered nervously in the background and filled any silences with inane DIY talk.
• Cried as Tadpole’s footsteps receded in the stairwell. I will not see her for THREE whole weeks and my tiny apartment no longer feels like home without her.
• Received an email from a lady enquiring whether I would like to be a guest on Richard and Judy. Said lady announced, at 7.30pm, that it is happening tomorrow! Hastily booked Eurostar tickets and started to fret about what to wear.
• Realised ALL my clothes were in the dirty washing basket, inside the wardrobe, against the door of which were stacked 43 Ikea boxes.
• Poured a medicinal gin and tonic.

I am left feeling that although some things have changed, radically, I never will.

I have been racking my brains, trying to figure out just who is sending me spoof emails pretending to be a two bit agent called Raymond Delauney… I accused JonnyB, then Trevor, but no-one is owning up…

The latest instalment arrived this morning:

11 August 2006 11:42
Re: Possible deal
To: Petite Anglaise

Hey Kid,

Apologies – I’ve been very busy on the other projects and accordingly had to but your bunsen on the back burner for now.

On a side issue I have sent a couple of scripts over to a few producer friends – I’ve not had any initial feedback yet which is a good sign as we’ve not been rejected out of hand. I suspect they may contact me with an offer on the gay sailor film (Bowled Over in Basra).

I’ve mentioned you’d likely to be on board once I’ve finalised a few figures.

How old are you? Might be able to help you out with an advertising deal.

I got a couple of marketing contacts who are keen to push pentapeptides. It’s some bullshit cream that makes the skin look younger. Undoubtedly a bag of crap but the guys at oil of Ulay did okay out of something similar… What do you reckon a ulay is, anyway?

They’ve slapped a scientific name on it with a fancy price and expect it to shift off the shelves – bought by gullible broads (that’s all of them, then). Someone told me I was gullible once – and I believed him!

I might be able to cut a sponsorship deal. How many hits does your site get?

In that blog of yours you say something along the lines of:

“Woke up today, feeling groggy after an interminable night of tossing and turning, my satin nighty chafing my thighs etc

I tried some pentapeptides last night (from Boots at £12.99) and I was amazed at how much younger my skin looks…”

Have a think on it.

Raymond

I am perplexed.

I am eating a lambs lettuce and Cambozola salad in a discreet restaurant somewhere in Kensington, marvelling at how much a life can change in a very short time.

After navigating through the streets with my cumbersome weekend bag – a bag which began the trip weighed down only by an outdated edition of the Writer’s Handbook and a change of undergarments, and which is now crammed full of hardbacks – I have completely lost my bearings.

I pinch myself, firmly yet discreetly, under the table, wondering if it is time to wake up yet.

My head is spinning slightly, from the wine, the heat, the dashing around and all the superlatives which have been bandied about in the last forty eight hours. I think I am supposed to be feeling excited and confident, fingertips itching for a keyboard.

Instead I am a bottomless pit of cold, hard fear and self-doubt. A sly voice whispers in my ear: “what if they are all wrong? Maybe you can’t do any of this…”

I jab at the last piece of Cambozola, remarking inwardly to myself that Roquefort would undoubtedly have been a much better choice of cheese in this context, its firm yet crumbly texture infinitely more pleasing on the fork than these rubbery, yielding cubes.

My lunch companion carries on talking.

I wonder if he has noticed the angry red crescent moons on my exposed wrist.

It is a Tuesday morning in early May, four days after my dismissal interview. An interminable bank holiday weekend alone, fretting about the future, has left me drained and exhausted. Luckily Tadpole is with Mr Frog’s parents for two whole weeks, a stay which was organised long ago to coincide with the childminder’s holidays.

Fortunate timing, I will admit, as I am in no fit state to care for anyone else right now. This logic does little, however, to take away the dull ache that her absence provokes.

I fire off a short email to my soon-to-be-ex-boss, enquiring as to whether my dismissal letter is ready. I have a deadline to respect for my apartment purchase, meaning that I must pull out or confirm the loan within the next five days. The very last thing I need is to wait for the postman deliver a letter sent by recorded delivery snail mail.

Rather than spend the next few hours on tenterhooks, pacing and willing the phone to ring, I watch several episodes of “Lost” back to back, still clad in my Miffy pyjamas. Focusing on suspenseful television is a helpful displacement strategy: my own stress is put on hold, temporarily, while I worry about mysterious monsters in the jungle instead.

The phone trills at 2.30pm.

“Allô?” I answer, pretending I do not know to whom I am speaking, despite the fact that the caller ID is clearly displayed on my handset.

“Catherine? How are you?” my boss stammers awkwardly.

It is a shame it has come to this, because despite our differences and occasional fallings out, we did get on pretty well, as a rule. And now we don’t quite know how to speak to one another.

“Oh, you know, I’ve been better,” I reply breezily, making a supreme effort not to betray my nervousness.

“I think I should be in a position to give you a copy of your dismissal letter this afternoon,” he continues cautiously.

I sense a “but”, and am not proved wrong. “It really depends on whether you agree to write a letter asking to be excused from serving your notice period…”

Notice period? My mind races ahead. If there is a notice period, that means that I am no longer being dismissed for “faute grave”. My suspension will be transformed into paid leave, I will get my holiday pay, and a small amount of severance money. This is all good news.

But, if my suspicions are correct, writing the letter he is asking for would mean waiving my right to a paid two month notice period. Not good.

I mumble something about mulling things over and arrange to drop by the office at the end of the afternoon. I replace the receiver, and when I look down, realise that my hands are visibly shaking.

A rapid telephone consultation with a union juriste confirms beyond a shadow of a doubt that it is out of the question for me to write any such letter.

It occurs to me that my ex-boss seems to be playing the role of the good cop, who has, against all odds, negotiated the best possible deal he can on my behalf, whereas, in fact, the real aim might be to make me feel so pathetically grateful that I will willingly sign away my rights.

This impression is confirmed when I arrive at the office.

I sit, opposite my ex-boss, in his glass walled office, only a few metres from the desk where I once worked. He seems dismayed when I decline to write the letter, and makes a great show of consulting fellow partners (running up and down the stairs, taking calls from a nearby meeting room) while I wait, trying to keep a lid on my panic, and, through a supreme act of will, refraining from taking a peek at the letter of dismissal left tantalisingly on his desk every time he vacates the room.

At one juncture he returns to tear up a copy of the letter with a theatrical flourish. A dramatic gesture; but I note, with an inward amusement I take pains not to display, that the original copy remains intact on his desk.

“Well,” he says, “I don’t know what to do now… I’m going to be away for a few days … and it doesn’t look like we can resolve this today…”

I say nothing, motioning as if to pick up my bag.

“Wait, stay there, I’ll just try one last time,” he says, and heads down the stairs once more. When he returns, he picks up the letter, and takes it to the photocopier.

I appear to have won a small victory.

He walks me to the lift, a manila envelope clutched in my clammy palms, my legs decidedly wobbly.

“Of course, I can’t promise that I won’t take my case to the prud’hommes.” I say, as the lift doors begin to slide closed.

Because this is far from over, as far as I’m concerned.

I sit cross legged on the floor, biting my lip whilst contemplating several flat packs of furniture and wondering how on earth I had managed to convince myself that I could assemble two gargantuan wardrobes without assistance.

The alarms bells first started ringing when the delivery men seemed to be struggling to even carry the boxes. They became deafening when I gutted the first pack and saw the assembly instructions, which portray a lady on a stepladder holding a wardrobe in place, while a gentleman gallantly hammers in nails and tries to resist the temptation to look up her skirt.

Not for the first time this week, I am forced to admit that I may have bitten off more than I can chew.

Happily, help is close at hand, in the form of a handyman who is coming over to help fix the wardrobes to the wall. When he arrives, I flash him my most winsome smile and flutter my eyelashes in what I hope is a feminine and appealing fashion. I doubt these things alone are enough to make him overlook my paint splattered attire and general state of clamminess, but there can be little doubt that I am a damsel in genuine Ikea distress, and he gamely sets to work while I pore over the instructions.

We are in the middle of pulling the first wardrobe upright when the telephone trills. I make a mental note to find a ringtone which doesn’t set my teeth on edge at the first opportunity and pull the phone out of my pocket with my free hand. It is someone from a radio station, whom I had rather inconveniently managed to forget about. I am supposed to wax lyrical about my dismissal on live radio in one minute’s time.

I wonder whether I am about to be the first person to ever give a radio interview whilst standing on a stepladder and holding a wardrobe upright. Given the surreal turn which events have taken since the first piece appeared in the press two days earlier, I am not sure that anything would be capable of surprising me any more. The first media call, on that fateful Tuesday, came from Radio Five Live, whilst I was sitting in the ASSEDIC (unemployment benefit) office, completing my paperwork.

The handyman, once he has heard my bashful explanation, kindly offers to refrain from hammering for the next two minutes and takes my place on the stepladder.

Realising that the level of background noise from the works being carried out in the courtyard may prevent me from making myself heard, I repair to the quietest room in my new apartment and close the door behind me.

And so it comes to pass that I give a live radio interview whilst perched on my toilet.

Gracious, I almost forgot.

Once upon a time, I wrote a whimsical post about calpol and menthol eucalyptus suppositories on a freshly created blogspot blog. I still get clickthroughs today from people who have searched for the latter and ended up here, a little disoriented and unsure as to how they washed up on these shores.

Two years have flashed by. There have been highs and lows (and I haven’t even begun to tell you about the lows, so do bear with me and I will enlighten you very soon) but on the whole I have no regrets. I have been prone to worry, on occasion, that this blog lives my life for me. But only sometimes. Mostly I’m just grateful for the number of firm friends I have made through petite anglaise, the way writing has helped me to find a little clarity when my head is a fuzzy mass of tangled thoughts, and above all for the way in which through this blog I re-discovered my long forgotten love of writing, many years after my creative writing efforts in GCSE English with Mr Jones.

In honour of my blogbirthday, I reserve the right to have a drink or two, to celebrate, so I may not be around to moderate comments this evening.

I wonder if it wouldn’t be fitting to light a couple of menthol eucalyptus suppositories?

I am proud to announce that I am now officially the owner of a compact and bijou little cupboard in Belleville.

Peering slightly drunkenly into my crystal ball – well, I had to celebrate a little, didn’t I? – I see paintbrushes, DIY and major, heavy-duty stress if a seamless high speed internet connection is not maintained throughout the move.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to meetic to recruit some big, strong and willing furniture movers…

Meet Segafredo.

Fredo, as I like to call him, was gifted to me by a kind reader who spotted that Mr Frog, while he graciously left me most of the furniture, did however make away with our coffee machine.

For my first date with Fredo, I consented to an expedition to the Rive Gauche to meet him in a café. Something of a rarity for me, as I am a definitely a Right Bank girl at heart. But I did not regret it. For me at least, it was love at first sight. There was something about his particular brand of Latin retro chic which I found irresistible. From the moment I laid eyes on him, I was simply itching to get my hands on his frothing attachment.

I knew, all along, that this would only be a fling, as Fredo was officially on long term loan only, as kind reader’s husband was a little dubious about the idea of his good lady wife giving a wedding present away to a stranger, even if a spangly new nespresso machine had recently stolen Fredo’s place in his affections.

My new Italian friend was heavy, weighing in at a good seven kilos, but I battled valliantly home on the métro, cradling him in my arms, reasoning that, in fact, he only weighed the equivalent of half a Tadpole. And I was confident that Fredo would prove to be rather less fickle than my daughter.

How wrong I was.

Don’t get me wrong, Fredo and I have shared some rare moments of complicity these past few weeks. In times of stress, he was there for me, without fail. Frothing milk, I have discovered, has a profoundly calming effect on my nerves, so we have made cappuccino after cappuccino together. His espresso looks and tastes simply perfect, a dark bitter body topped with a delicate creamy head. Fredo and petite: a match made in heaven.

Until one morning, without any warning, he lost his temper with me and grew violent. I watched with alarm as grainy water gushed over the top of the filter and sullied the cappuccino I was preparing. Gasped and brusquely flipped his switch to “off” as I saw his arm begin to swing sideways under the influence of some evil impulse. Took a step back and watched in disbelief as the filter arm detached itself altogether, seemingly in slow motion, splattering me, and my entire kitchen, with boiling coffee grounds.

Today this occurred for the second time in as many weeks.

I eye Fredo, reproachfully, while applying burn spray to my left arm.

“I’m warning you,” I say, in my most menacing voice. “Three strikes and you are out. I’ll save up my paypal donations and buy myself a new friend. Throw you out on your ear. You may be fiendishly handsome, but don’t make the mistake of thinking you are irreplaceable.”

I realise that I probably should have paid more heed to my mother’s warnings about Latin males.

I will return. In a week or so. (Tadpole and I are fine, please don’t worry!)

Just in case you are wondering, or cursing my bone idleness, or poised to demand a full refund for your kind paypal donation, I feel it is only fair to warn you that petite anglaise is officially de-camping to Nice until further notice (well, until Wednesday evening) and will be computerless – unless the lady with the famous chin can let me use her laptop for a few seconds – and therefore not be able to write much/at all.

In a nutshell – the blog meet up thing was very lovely, as usual, and I managed not to fall off my chair/stool, to find a suitable candidate for the position of gay best friend (a must have for any single girl, oh so very Sex and the City) and to top off all those lovely cocktails with a damn fine falafel in the rue des Rosiers. A perfect evening, in short. Thank you to the twenty or so of you who came. We will do it again soon. Most definitely.

I bring you this short respite from the melodrama that has been petite anglaise, of late, to ask a small favour, for a friend. If you live in Marseille or Nice, speak English and are very lovely indeed, please contact me on petite.anglaise@gmail.com and I will explain further.

Just a warning that I will be moving this humble abode from my money-grabbing, bandwidth-poor French host to a cuddly US operation named A Small Orange. If all goes well, you won’t even notice.

A relief? Oh yes, Amen to that.

I was off work feeling under the weather today, and it seems that my newly migrated – to a bigger server as my host was threatening to pull the plug if I didn’t upgrade – site was having sympathy pains. Much installation stress and several expensive phone calls later and, fingers crossed, we seem to have lift off again, albeit with the loss of a few comments I hadn’t had chance to back up in the database.

And I needn’t have bothered having my hair dyed. It turned white overnight with worry.

If you have any shopping to do on Amazon, please consider clicking on one of my “reading” links in the sidebar to do so (you don’t have to buy my recommended book, anything you buy on the site will in fact earn me a very small commission). I love writing petiteanglaise, but it does cost me money to maintain this site, with its growing bandwidth needs, and sometimes it is money I can ill afford.

Right, off to bed, and hopefully back tomorrow.

Those of you who were paying attention last January will remember a rash promise made by yours truly involving posing for the interweb in nothing but a pair of satin pyjamas. Luckily, I came second in the “best blog” category of the European Weblog Awards, and didn’t have to put my money where my (big) mouth was.

This year, I will refrain from trying to influence the voting in such an underhand way, but may I suggest that you spare a few seconds to take a look at this site and cast your votes as you see fit. There are some very good blogs represented there, and hopefully you may stumble across some others which tickle your fancy.

I am rather thinly spread across several categories once again, but I think petite anglaise is more a personal blog than an expat blog these days, don’t you think? I think the term “best” sounds very nice, but I’m not sure how one is supposed to quantify how much “better” one blog is than another.

I try sitting up in bed, as an experiment, but this does not work for me at all, and I let myself flop back into the pillows, groaning theatrically.

“Tea?” enquires Lover, appearing, as if by magic, with two steaming mugs.

“I want my mum,” I whimper, pitifully.

It’s not that I’m ungrateful. Nor am I finding fault with the almost indecent levels of pampering I have been subjected to over the past couple of days. Invariably however, when I feel ill, I remember, with a certain nostalgia-tinged fondness, days off school as a child. Languishing on the sofa in front of daytime television, vaguely aware of the comforting background noises of my mother clattering about in the kitchen. The compulsory ‘feeling better’ meal of boiled egg and soldiers which she always made once I was on the mend. To this day, I cannot eat a boiled egg unless I’m convalescing. It just wouldn’t be right.

Today there is actually nothing wrong with me that a flu-strength Lempsip wouldn’t fix – although a French doctor would probably say it was a very serious rhinopharyngite and write me a prescription as long as my forearm. But I reserve the right to feel sorry for myself all the same.

I sip my tea pensively, then turn to Lover, casting around for inspiration.

“I have nothing to write about on my blog. What can I write about?”

“Hmm,” he says. “Make something up… how about the fact that you came home from work last night and found me in flagrante with a rent boy? That would get a rabid response from those commenters of yours.”

I frown, wondering whether I should worry that rent boys were involved in the first idea that spontaneously popped into Lover’s mind, and at 7.00 am on a Wednesday morning. Thankfully, I remember that there is some story involving a British MP and a rent boy in the UK news at the moment, so I should probably not consider this flight of fancy a serious cause for concern.

“You realise your inbox would be deluged with hate mail? Or you’d be tracked down and lynched? My readers are a very loyal bunch. Well, apart from Tess, and Dr Analyst.”

He has to concede that I have a point. Using his real name in my comments box is possibly starting to look like less of a good idea. It may limit his future margin for manoeuvre considerably.

“Anyway, be careful what you wish for,” I continue, mischievously. “When Mr Frog asked me to flesh out his character a little, I had him dancing around my living room in women’s clothing to the Scissor Sisters.”

Oh yes. The possibilities are endless…

Last weekend, I felt so blissfully happy that I said so, out loud, at least three times. In the space of one hour. There I was, in England with my Lover, both childless, shopping in (ahem) Primark and looking forward to a hearty pub lunch. My figurative cup was brimming over.

I should have known, from experience, that when I scale such a dizzy, euphoric peak, there is often a corresponding trough lurking just around the corner, for me to fall into. A trough, or perhaps a canyon. Sure enough, as the weekend drew to a close, a despondent mood crept stealthily over me. What I initially mistook for that Sunday evening, school-tomorrow-but-haven’t-done-my-homework feeling, coupled with vague apprehension about the late flight home and the likely effect it would have on my Tadpole – worn out from an energetic weekend with the grandparents – was actually the onset of something more sinister.

From the moment I opened my eyes on Monday morning, the world seemed utterly bleak. Where once there had been glorious technicolour, a warm, fuzzy glow of light-heartedness and optimism, now everything was shaded grey or black, my gaiety had drained away, giving way to mild paranoia, crippling exhaustion and relentless negativity. Black thoughts whirled inside my head, and an extreme effort of will was required to do the simplest things.

Lover, in England still, seemed remote, inaccessible. July, and all the plans I had spent the weekend going over, gleefully, seemed to slip from my grasp and recede far, far away. I could find not one thing to look forward to, to feel good about. Tadpole was being unpredictable, in turn an angel, then a demon, her demonic behaviour culminating with a “go away mummy!” and a slammed door when I arrived at the childminder’s house last night. It was all I could do not to curl up in a ball outside the door and sob.

And in my irrational, destructive state of mind, even though I knew full well that he was the one who could help me the most, I pushed Lover away. Held petty things against him. Twisted his words. Tested his limits. And, when, sensibly, he took a step back, waiting for the storm to pass, I hated him for leaving me alone. Willed the silent phone to ring.

My rational self looked on, knowing all along that this was madness, stupidity; it would pass, given a few days. It was no match for this other me though, who preferred to wallow in self-pity and pick at my insecurities, like a small child who can’t leave a scab alone.

Today, finally, I feel like I have found firm, level ground to walk on, and the world is slowly, cautiously becoming suffused with colour again. Please, oh please let it last.

Somebody stop the rollercoaster, I want to get off.

In no particular order: a collection of good, if futile, intentions for 2006.

• Will try not to eat all of Tadpole’s Christmas (white) chocolate, as well as my own. Or at least not to eat the Cadbury’s buttons by the handfull. Unless no-one’s watching.
• Will attempt to do some exercise, if only to get back that off-limits section of the wardrobe where everything is filed under “pre-Tadpole” (and yes, I know that was a long time ago…)
• Will not lapse into horrible yo-yo dieting and bulemia, in so doing.
• Will strive to get my “five portions” a day. Every day. (Note to self: may need to purchase Viagra on internet.)
• Will work hard at increasing my feeble alchohol tolerance levels. The only way is up.
• Will endeavour to potty train Tadpole, who is precocious in many ways, but strangely reluctant to leave nappies behind.
• Will attempt to refrain from answering the call of nature in baths, swimming pools, and indeed any body of water.
• Will erase the words “yeah”, “oh my god!” and “bugger!” from my vocabulary because these words simply sound wrong on the innocent lips of my daughter.
• Will post on the blog more often, but only if have something worth saying.
• Will write saucy anonymous sex blog with lots of steamy action and live off the advertising revenue.
• Will endeavour to persuade Lover to de-clutter his apartment before the advent of the Parisians, in July…
• … without throwing too many things away that he actually needs/wants/can’t live without, causing irreparable harm to blossoming relationship.
• Will try to prevent self from singing the words “I would like to tender my resignation”…
• … or dancing a celebratory dance around the office.
• Will attempt to stay in touch with my far-flung friends more often – although quite frankly would be hard pushed to get in touch less often.
• Will try to get back behind the wheel after 14 year hiatus without causing injury to fellow travellers on the roads of Britanny.
• Will find a way to stop computer sounding like an industrial hairdryer. Tadpole at Christmas, when mother switched on very noisy hoover to remove Christmas tree needles from carpet: “It’s a computer!”
• Win something. The loto, ideally, although a bloggie would be nice. Nominations are accepted from now until 20 January – petite could conceivably feature in the European category, perhaps?

Last night, preparing my third batch of mince pies this month for yet another gathering involving mulled wine (mulled by someone else this time, thankfully, as I found my own attempt at the weekend was a little too dominated by the pungent taste of cloves), I had an out of body experience.

From my vantage point on the kitchen ceiling, I looked down in some consternation at the spectacle of a blonde thirtysomething year old (whose dark roots could bear a little retouche, incidentally, as seen from this particular angle) gently tapping icing sugar through a sieve with a teaspoon, onto a mince pie which was partially covered with a cardboard cut out of a star, with a smaller star inside it. The results (see photo) were undeniably very fetching, but I had to wonder whether this lady shouldn’t be devoting her energies to some other, more rewarding activity than drawing stars on pieces of card and cutting around them with nail scissors.

The domestic goddess thing (if one can qualify for goddesshood when the pastry is bought ready rolled, the mincemeat out of a jar, and one is not wearing an apron) may have gone just a little too far.

As I snapped back into my body again, with an elastic band like twang, I hastily grabbed a beer from the fridge and wiped my shaking, floury hands on my jeans, in an attempt to sully the tableau of myself as Pastry Goddess.

I did however keep the cardboard cut out. It might be needed again on Christmas day. You never know.

*****

Later still, I reluctantly prepared to do some ironing. At the best of times, this is a task which tends to be deferred until not one pair of work trousers remains and it absolutely cannot be avoided. On this occasion, to add insult to injury, the (mostly black) garments which awaited their turn had accidentally been washed with a pink jumper of Tadpole’s (with a delightful cat motif, courtesy of belle maman), and were all, without exception, covered in a fine dusting of pink fluffy lint.

This was a job for the “sticky toilet roll on a stick” device, if ever there was one. I have no idea what this contraption is known as, either in French or in English, and, in case you were planning to take it upon yourself to enlighten me, I would prefer not to know, as there are some things in life that should remain a mystery.

But the sad fact of the matter is that it was only yesterday that it came to me in a sudden and unexpected flash of enlightenment that there are actually SEVERAL LAYERS of sticky stuff on the (loo)roll.

Who knew?

There was me thinking that the “sticky toilet roll on a stick” was the most wasteful invention in the Western world, because after cleaning the lint off a single T-shirt it had to be consigned to the bin and a new one (or a toilet roll refill) purchased. How misguided was I? How could I have been blind to the existence of the several layers of untouched, virginal, supremely adhesive roll which lie beneath?

So, in case any other poor souls are labouring under the illusion that sticky toilet rolls on a stick are single use products, I decided to share my (latest) epiphany with the internet.

Please tell me I was not alone in thinking this?

I am walking along a long corridor with my daddy, who is very tall, like a giant. The corridor stretches as far as I can see in both directions. Everyone who catches sight of me, whether it be a nurse, another visitor or a patient, smiles or points, and I giggle with delight. I like being the centre of everyone’s attention.

We are going to visit mummy and my new baby sister, who has red hair and a very blotchy face, in the maternity ward. I am two years and ten months old, and when I got dressed today I insisted on wearing my nurse’s uniform.

*****

I am lying in my bed in the dark wondering what to do. I have a proper bed, because I’m a big girl, but my sister still sleeps in a cot. Wilfred, my teddy, is propped up in his usual place, covering the end of the radiator which looks like a scary face. I have just woken from a very nasty dream about the monster who hides in the shadowy place behind the sofa in the living room, and I would like nothing more than to run into mummy and daddy’s bedroom for a cuddle.

The problem is that the man who lives at the foot of the bed, who sometimes tickles my feet in the night, might grab me if I do.

I deliberate, for what seems like hours, but is probably only a matter of seconds, then shoot out of the bottom left hand corner of the bed, just out of his reach, and lunge out onto the brightly lit landing.

*****

It is the Queen’s birthday, which is called a “Jubilee”. I am wearing my very best dress, which is German and called a “dirndl”. My auntie lives in Germany, and she bought a blue dirndl for me and a green one for my sister.

There is a party in someone’s garden for the Jubilee, and all the people from Admiral’s Court, the cul de sac where we live, are there. We have wheelbarrow races, and I eat lots of cake and ice cream and jelly.

When it is bedtime, a nice girl comes to babysit so that mummy and daddy can go back to the party without us. I have a tummy ache, and suddenly realise that I am going to be sick, but I can’t tell the babysitter because I daren’t open my mouth. I point to my mouth with one hand, covering it with the other, and she somehow understands and motions me into the bathroom. I go to the sink, like mummy showed me, but the babysitter says “no!” and makes me do it in the toilet.

It tastes really, really horrible, but once all the jelly has come back out, I feel much better.

*****

These are the earliest memories I can recall from my childhood. I’m as sure as I can be that these are memories, as opposed to stories recounted by adults within my earshot so many times that I have fashioned mental images to accompany them. Although I still maintain to this day that I must have been with my mother when my baby sister was stung by a wasp as she laid in her big, old-fashioned pram, so vivid are the pictures and soundtrack I carry in my head. But I wasn’t actually there, I was at school, according to my mother.

Sometimes I wonder what Tadpole’s first memory will be. Hanging decorations together on our Christmas tree? Singing songs with mummy in the bathroom, enjoying the echo of our voices? Dissolving in fits of giggles when she does that funny voice for “The Gruffalo”? Gasping at the twinkling lights of Paris by night from daddy’s living room window?

I look forward to the day, many years from now, when my daughter will tell me.

A kind reader has nominated petite anglaise as Best European Blog in the Wizzbang Weblog Awards for 2005. I must admit I can’t really keep a handle on what these different awards are/mean, but if you are at a loose end and feel like voting (apparently you can do this every 24 hours, bizarrely), then kindly step this way:

Forgive me, I’m just thinking aloud. In no particular order:

1. Register Tadpole for pre-shool for September 06 at local mairie in case Lover turns out to be an axe murderer and we decide not to leave Paris after all (deadline 31 January)
2. Purchase 2 camels, 1 donkey and several goats (www.oxfam.co.uk)
3. Put magnum of champagne in fridge to chill for party tomorrow, make mince pies
4. Ring UPS to convey “petite” to Ipod Hospital in Netherlands in her pre-paid envelope
5. Choose new glasses frames (Prada?)
6. Get passport photos for recruitment agency (black and white? more flattering?)
7. Pack Tadpole’s overnight/weekend bags
8. Pay nanny (tomorrow)
9. Check current status of misbehaving digital camera – need usual Christmas photo of Tadpole with antlers developed in time for sending of Christmas cards
10. Buy glittery pens for colouring Early Learning Center christmas cards with Tadpole

Technology, it would seem, is no longer my friend.

First, let me share the tale of woe of my beloved 40 GB Ipod, won in a charity reverse auction for the symbolic sum of £ 16.00 last Christmas. “Petite”, as she is known, is having some sort of identity crisis. She no longer remembers that she is, in fact, an Ipod. She has forgotten how to have cosy chats with my computer. Error messages abound every time I set “petite” on her stand. She “won’t mount”. I have no idea what could at the root of her sudden frigidity.

Reformatting her is not an option, as even the ‘restore’ tool will not acknowledge her existence. There is nothing for it but to send her, swathed in swaddling clothes and bubble wrap, to the Apple Hospital and pray that they are able to perform a miracle. Which clearly will involve wiping the 2,500+ songs stored inside her pretty head, which I, in my blondeness, have neglected to back up anywhere on my computer. Gah.

The good news: “petite” is still within her one year warranty period, so any repairs should be free of charge. The bad news: Apple may demand proof of purchase, which I don’t have, as I didn’t actually purchase her. So now I have to contact the nice people at Auctionair, to see if they have some sort of paperwork.

I’m not holding my breath.

Secondly, our faithful digital camera (which does not have a name or gender) is being temperamental. Sometimes it can see perfectly well. At other times the preview screen remains black. After warming up for a little while, the camera may deign to recognise a light source like, say, a naked lightbulb if it is approximately 2 cm from the lens. Other than that, blackness. A form of depression, perhaps.

Obviously the dark phases occur when I am at home fiddling ever more desperately with the settings in the comfort of my apartment, and the working perfectly well phases occur when I am standing in the Fnac about to ask the opinion of an expert.

I suppose as these things always come in threes, I must brace myself to see what is going to malfunction next. The computer itself? The rather ancient video recorder which Tadpole uses to watch Noddy and Pingu?

I don’t suppose the bulb which exploded when I turned on the hall light this morning counts?

Preoccupied as I was with all my technological woes this morning, I fed and dressed Tadpole on autopilot.

After bundling her into the lift, I squeezed in beside her with my large plastic bin full to overflowing with bottles destined for the recycling bin (note to self, just how did I get through that quantity of red wine?) Halfway down to the ground floor, I heard Tadpole’s muffled, and rather puzzled voice emerge from beneath several layers of fleecy (pink) clothing.

“Mummy, I got my slippers on.”

I am left wondering whether I can’t climb into a nice padded envelope and send myself in for a service.

Three things offended my delicate sensibilities today. In the following order:

First, the grafitti in the lift which takes me into the bowels of the earth to catch my morning métro:

“Pas heureux chez nous? Allez donc crever de faim chez vous!”

Glad to see the spirit of fraternité is alive and kicking in the twenty first century.

Second, old greasy bum is back on a billboard near you (shameless recycling on the part of the Galéries Lafayette) and almost succeeded in putting me off my brioche.

Third, work. I don’t talk about work. It’s my new rule. But if I say I decided it might be prudent to revamp the CV today, that’s not really talking about work, is it?

If you had seen me last night at 10 pm, kneeling on the icy cold tomette tiles of my kitchen floor, head and torso wedged tightly into the cupboard under the sink, rear end protruding, you would have been forgiven for wondering what on earth I was doing.

It all started with the innocent looking cardboard notice which greeted me as opened the lift door yesterday evening, proclaiming that a quarterly reading of the water meter was required. I sighed, and cursed my landlord, and the inept bunch of renovators he seemingly employed to give our flat a superficial and ill-thought out makeover prior to our arrival in December 2002.

The “kitchen”, where the infamous water meter is located, is little more than a glorified corridor, as is often the case in circa 1900 apartment buildings, where the original, respectably sized kitchen was later carved up in order to create a bathroom alongside it. Prior to this, shared facilities would have been the norm.

When Mr Frog and I moved in, the only equipment in our “cuisine équipée” was a sink unit with gas hobs set into the work surface adjacent to the sink, (meaning, helpfully, no space for a draining board). Below the sink, the cupboard my bottom was protruding from. Below the gas hobs, an empty space and the wherewithall to plumb in a washing machine. With a little creative thinking and an ikea catalogue, I managed to create a compact and bijou kitchen out of this tiny space, which works well enough, so long as not more than one person wants to be in there at any given time.

That is, until a reading from the water meter is required.

In order to obtain said reading, one must first reach behind the cupboard under the sink and detach the washing machine hoses. As access is rather awkward, it is advisable to empty said cupboard of its contents. Then, once the water hoses have been disconnected, the washing machine may be eased gently from its housing. Unfortunately, the person who devised and fitted the kitchen unit decided to make it exactly as wide as a standard-sized washing machine, but not a centimetre wider. With the result that my faithful Zanussi “appliance of science” has to be be prised, wiggled and coaxed out of its space with a certain amount of difficulty. Every time the manoeuvre is repeated, the future of said kitchen unit looks ever more uncertain. Half way through said manoeuvre, it becomes apparent that the free standing work surface/cupboard located directly opposite the washing machine needs to be wheeled out of the way, into the hall, to enable the washing machine to be heaved into the space it occupied.

Finally, one must crawl on hands and knees into the space vacated by the washing machine, preferably armed with a cloth for mopping up the water which has undoubtedly escaped from the dangling water hoses, and also a torch, for the reading of the western world’s most inaccessible water meter, located on the back wall. After which the washing machine must be coaxed back into its sheath and re-connected to the water supply/drain.

An operation which takes, on average, twenty minutes, and which can be likened, in terms of the discomfort and physical contortion involved, to the act of kissing the blarney stone.

Imagine, if you will, the fun I had performing this task for the first time, when heavily pregnant with Tadpole. I sat down, panting, to fill in the card which the water company had left on my doormat. Only at this juncture did I notice that the number they were interested in was the one which appeared in the black area. Not the red one which I had just taken down.

Yesterday, however, I successfuly employed Mr Frog’s meter reading method (patent pending), marvelling at how effortlessly simple it was. After a mere five minutes spent with my torso wedged in the cupboard, arm outstretched into the void beyond (praying that it would not encounter any spiders, cockroaches or other vermin along the way) and a few “click click click click beep” noises, the reading was mine, all mine. Not a drop of water was shed; not a female tennis player style grunt of exertion was to be heard.

Pure, unadulterated genius.

Cars they may have been a-burning, and people they may have been a-rioting, but petite, oblivious to it all this weekend, swapped her keyboard for a paintbrush, set her ipod on its base, and, rather randomly, decided to play albums by bands beginning with the letter K while she worked.

And it was very relaxing indeed.

The pre-teen girl was previously an unknown quantity to me.

Being the parent of a toddler means that I have some insight into the contrary nature of the beast known as the two year old, and have not inconsiderable experience in the dark art of heading off/dealing with temper tantrums. I also vaguely remember what one year olds are about: an unsteady gait, an extremely limited vocabulary and the tell-tale rosy cheeks of teething. However, my memories of the first twelve months of Tadpole’s life are fast receding. If someone were to hand me a newborn, I’d be just as reluctant to hold it as I was pre-Tadpole. I seem to have forgotten how. Then there are the things I have blocked out of my mind for a reason, a form of selective amnesia, like the thrice daily expressing sessions I spent hidden in the work toilets. (If you don’t know what I mean by “expressing”, trust me, ignorance is bliss).

Children any older than Tadpole are far beyond the limits of my comprehension. I see Tadpole’s future through a fog of apprehension about coping with a potentially upsetting Barbie obsession, or an unfortunate addiction to the colour pink. So, when I met my lover from Rennes, father of two pre-teen girls who come to stay on alternate weekends, I was understandably nervous. What would they be like? How would I be expected to behave (by both him and by them)? Would they warm to me, and to Tadpole, or resent us for getting in the way on their precious weekends with dad? Seen through their eyes, was I young and cool? Or distressingly old and hopelessly out of touch? How on earth does one talk to an eight or ten year old?

Six months down the line, having spent several weekends in the company of my potential stepdaughters, both with and without Tadpole, I have to say that thankfully my initial fears proved to be groundless.

Reassured by my lover that it would not be a big deal, I decided the best way to play it was to just be myself (albeit with slightly less freedom in my choice of expletives) and let them take me or leave me. Talk to them as young adults, without condescension. Avoid resorting to bribery or bombarding them with questions. Trust in the fact that what we do have in common – love for their father – would prove to be sufficient common ground for us to forge some sort of relationship.

So, on weekends where we all find ourselves in Rennes, the girls do their thing (drawing pictures of ponies, their obsession, performing dance routines to Christina Aguilera songs, making Scoubidou bracelets or watching programmes about animals in danger on Sky TV) and I do mine (grabbing their dad’s bottom sneakily when just out of eyeshot, reading a book in the next room, surfing the internet, or lazing around drinking tea). We co-exist, at ease with one another’s presence, none of us feeling the need to populate our silences with unnecessary nervous chatter. I’d be lying if I said I don’t look forward to the time when they will be tucked up in bed and I can spend some time alone with my lover. But all good things are improved by having to wait.

And so it came to pass that this Tadpoleless Rennes weekend was mostly spent watching a Lemony Snicket film (highly recommended) and playing board games (Cranium Cadoo).

And finding, almost in spite of myself, that it was really quite enjoyable.

Censorship is a terrible thing. Especially when it is self inflicted.

The subject which is preying on my mind, to the exclusion of all else, is the fraught atmosphere at work. However, I’ve come to the conclusion that I need to exercise caution about what I say.

If I won’t allow myself to write about work, then I find myself rather lost for words. Which is why I have been a little quieter this week.

But, in honour of my birthday, how about a quiz?

Which of the following statements are not true ?

a) I can speak some German, especially if you want to hold a conversation about bowel movements;
b) I have read every “Nancy Drew” detective story ever written;
c) The worst punishment I can remember as a child was not being allowed to watch “The Famous Five” on TV;
d) I own a signed Then Jericho album;
e) I hate aniseed and liquorice. And sprouts;
f) The only time I ever felt the slightest inclination to watch porn was when I was pregnant;
g) My favourite teddy bear as a child was a Peter Rabbit, made by my great grandma’s next door neighbour;
h) The sampler I made at school when I was 9 featured a BBC micro computer in cross stitch;
i) My porn star name is Pixie Eden;
j) The only time I ever trod the boards was as a Penguin in a school play at Clipstone Brook Lower School, Leighton Buzzard;
k) My favourite boss to date was a one-armed racing driver.

answers

e) is incorrect. I do hate aniseed and liquorice, however I like (brussels) sprouts.

Clarification: porn star name. This does not mean that I have a second career as an “actress”. Of the many methods used for calculating your “porn star name”, I have used the formula first pet’s name + mother’s maiden name here. Surfing on the web, I found name generators, along with a delightful quiz in which you are asked to guess which of a list of names belongs to a porn star, and which to a My Little Pony. Surprisingly difficult.

Finding a suitable name to describe the man in my life is proving almost as difficult as finding a name I approve of to refer to certain parts of my anatomy.

The word “boyfriend” makes me feel as though I have time travelled back to being sixteen again, with all the enthusiastic ineptitude/dry humping that teen relationships evoke. This couldn’t be further from our reality: he is divorced with two children, I have a daughter, and we are both on the wrong side of thirty. The French equivalent “mon petit ami” is even worse. My little friend? I don’t think so. It sounds like something that lives in one’s trousers. “Mon copain”, on the other hand, is a bit too matey and casual for my liking. It can be used to mean any male friend, not just Mr Right.

I encountered a similar problem with Mr Frog, exacerbated by the fact that we had chosen to have a baby out of wedlock. I often found myself referring to him in conversation as “Tadpole’s dad” (“son papa”), which eerily foreshadowed the events which were to follow, as it carries with it, to my mind, an implication of separation. Her father. Not my anything.

Often, if an acquaintance or a stranger made the assumption that Mr Frog was actually “mon mari”, I chose to go with the flow and let them go on thinking we were married. It just seemed easier that way. Although I do recall a heated exchange with my mother once on that subject. She was lamenting the fact that she didn’t know how to refer to Mr Frog when talking to her friends. Exasperated, I retorted that I was hardly about to get hitched just to make her life easier by putting her out of her semantic misery.

“Partner”, which I find somehow cold and clinical in English, aside from any same sex relationship undertones, doesn’t really have a French equivalent. Living together, or co-habiting, is known as “concubinage” in French, a choice of vocabulary which I personally feel uncomfortable with, conjuring up as it does images of courtesans, kept women and secondary wives.

Feeling thoroughly let down by both French and English, I tended to refer to Mr Frog quite simply by his Christian name, relying on context to fill in any blanks people might have.

I intend to do the same with my new man, at least until we get around to tying the knot. But this doesn’t seem fitting on the internet, so you’ll just have to make do with “my Lover” for now. With a capital “L”.

Now that particular thorny subject has been put to bed, all that remains is to resolve the anatomical question.

Answers in my box, please.

We take our seats on the soon-to-be-Paris-bound Jet2 plane, patiently parked on the tarmac of Leeds Bradford airport.

I am feeling a strange little pang. It is the first time I have left Tadpole in the mother country. She will be holidaying with mum and dad for the last week of the childminder’s vacation, and I will retrieve her next weekend. The Lover and I took the opportunity to conduct a a grand “meet the parents” tour of Yorkshire.

The pilot makes an announcement. “We are currently delayed, as two passengers have checked luggage onto this flight but have failed to put in an appearance at the boarding gate. We apologise for this delay, and will be setting off just as soon as their baggage has been removed from the hold.”

I sigh, mutter something grumpy but inaudible and glance at my watch. The only good thing about arriving in Paris a little later than expected is that I will probably not be subjected to the Grand Prix on TF1.

I reach for the Sudoku book, pen and pencil. I’m sad to say that, as with most things (blogging included), I have come to it unfashionably late. I completed my first puzzle in the Yorkshire Evening Press at 1 o’clock on Friday morning. By Saturday afternoon I was addicted and have already had several vivid dreams involving rows of numbers. Particularly 9’s, for some reason.

Time passes, without me noticing, so absorbed am I muttering “it can’t be a 4, a 7 or a 9,” or something similarly fascinating, under my breath, and then the pilot takes to the PA system once more.

“We have a new development, Ladies and Gentlemen,” he says, clearly enjoying himself. “The two missing passengers have been located and rather than remove their baggage, we will be allowing them to join us on board.”

I roll my eyes at my Lover, and we agree that we would not like to be in their shoes when they finally board the plane and feel the weight of a hundred or more Paddington stares. The pilot, however, has not yet finished his speech:

“I think you should all give them a hearty round of applause to show how much you appreciate them finally deciding to join us!”

Grinning at this somewhat unexpected suggestion, I put down my puzzle and watch the doors. Will it be another dim-looking perma-tanned couple, he with a rather too tight T-shirt, her with a Burberry handbag? Or perhaps a couple of old dears who are a little hard of hearing?

Instead I see a reasonably attractive (if you like the boy band look, which I don’t) young man and his very slinky black girlfriend. She looks flushed, and slightly dishevelled. He looks exceedingly pleased with himself.

The Lover and I give each other a conspiratorial look. “They were so shagging in the toilets,” I exclaim. Probably too loudly.

At first, no-one claps. But after a few seconds of silence, someone does start to applaud, a few rows behind us, and is joined by other, hesitant pairs of hands.

The young man shoots his companion a glance, then breaks into a wide grin and takes a theatrical bow, to rapturous applause.

I join in, unsure as to why I am enthusiastically congratulating a complete stranger on his sexual prowess (well, they must have been out of earshot of the tannoys for a good half hour) and ability to seduce such a fine looking lady. After all, these people have made me late.

Late for the Grand Prix.

I clap with renewed enthusiasm.

I have been tagged with a shoe meme. Not only tagged, but challenged: “Petite, because she’ll never do it.”

Grrr. Of course this means I have to. But if it makes less than thrilling reading, it’s beyond my control.

Until about the age of sixteen, I loathed buying shoes. I liked having my feet measured at Clarks shoe shop, in the special machine with metal bars that gently closed around my feet, the vibrations of the machine tickling slightly, but I didn’t like the sensible shoes that we invariably left the shop with. Not only did the shoes have to comply with strict school uniform regulations, but they also had to have a low heel, because it had been decreed that I had weak ankles. Thus for many years my shoes were of the lace up, sturdy, characterless variety and the prospect of buying a new pair was not something I tended to get terribly excited about.

At sixth form college there was no uniform. Finally I was free to express my personality via my footwear. And what did I buy? Black slip-on plimsolls to start with, just like the regulation ones we used to wear in PE classes at school. I think I favoured these because they cost very little. Then, in keeping with my status as an NME and Melody Maker reader, I graduated to my very first pair of Doc Martens. These were worn with everything: the charity shop Laura Ashley pinafores which I favoured at the time, jeans, mini skirts and even ball gowns. At university, I graduated to a pair of bright blue Docs, and strung beads on the laces. I loved those boots, and wore them until the shiny leather cracked.

A couple of years later, I discovered electronic music and everything that entailed, which generated a need for footwear which would enable me to dance for twelve hours at a time. The Doc Martens were swiftly retired, to be replaced by suede trainers, worn with shimmering sequined mini-dresses. (I never could understand how clubbers managed to dance in strappy sandals.) These, when not adorning my feet, lived outside my window. For obvious reasons.

It was only when I began working in offices (circa 1998) and earning a wage, that I started to take any interest in shoes, owning multiple pairs, and investing in different styles of shoe to complement different outfits. Throwing caution to the wind, and blocking out my mother’s voice in my head, protesting in vain about my weak ankles, I bought shoes and boots with heels. A revelation! I discovered what most short people had probably known innately all along: they made me look taller, and made my calves look thinner. It was an epiphany, of sorts.

I still don’t think I own very many pairs of shoes by Nardac, schuey or Coquette’s standards. And I’m sad to say that I am not au fait with much in the way of shoe terminology, so you won’t find me bandying about phrases like ‘Mary Janes’ with careless abandon.

My main gripe when buying footwear in France is that I can never find a pair of boots which I can actually zip up over my fair (but slightly sturdy) calves. I’ve learned my lesson: I source those in Blighty, to avoid embarassment.

Below is the shoe meme, in case this sort of thing really does fascinate you:

How many pairs of shoes do you have?

• 1 pair of multicoloured suede pumps from fun&basics in Madrid
• 1 pair of black kitten heel shoes for work, can’t remember where I bought them
• 1 pair of patent leather high block heeled shoes from Nine West which caused me to fall down the stairs at work, with the sound of my mother’s voice saying “I told you so”, echoing in my ears…
• 1 pair of black knee high boots (from England, for aforementioned reasons)
• 1 pair of brown high heeled ankle-high boots
• 1 pair of black medium heeled mid-calf high boots (from England)
• 1 pair of brown tiger ‘Kill Bill’ trainers
• 1 pair of black coq sportif trainers
• 1 pair of brown flipflops
• 1 pair of black and beige flat sandals from Office, UK**
• 1 pair of black strappy sandals with kitten heels
• 1 pair of gorgeous brown Louis Vuitton shoes from a private sale* (I photographed these, then deleted the picture by accident, sorry)
• 1 pair of slightly less gorgeous Louis Vuitton shoes from same
• 2 pairs of Barry Comfort slippers (free when Mr Frog did their advertising involving very sarcastic talking slippers)
• 1 pair of complimentary slippers from a hotel in Geneva, 4 sizes too big, courtesy of Mr Frog

Total:16 (which probably doesn’t qualify me for “proper girl” status, and I’m really scraping the barrel by including my slippers)

Most expensive pair of shoes: *

Last shoe you bought:**

How many shoes under your work desk:

Er, I’m not sure I understand this one. That’ll be the suede pumps I’m currently wearing. I don’t make a habit of bringing extra pairs into the office. Should I?

I wouldn’t mind if my Lover’s shoes were also under the desk, provided they were attached to Lover. But that’s too rude a fantasy for my mum to read about.

At this juncture I think I am supposed to tag someone else with the shoe meme. But I think I’ll just look for volunteers instead. First five people who want to brag about their shoe collection, mention it in the comments box below and I’ll link to you here.

Petite anglaise began blogging on 7 July 2004.

Looking at those first posts, which quite frankly make me cringe when I re-read them now, I realise things have come a long way since then. The blog has evolved, organically, without any sort of master plan, and I have undoubtedly evolved with it.

Let me take this opportunity to thank you all for reading, blogrolling, commenting, emailing and nominating petite anglaise for awards in the past year. It means a great deal: without you, I am nothing.

I have no idea if petite will make it to a second blogiversary, but in honour of today, I wonder if you might consider leaving a comment in the box below and telling me one thing about yourself that not many people know.

I promise I won’t tell anyone.

You will have to forgive me for sending you here again today as I am off work, away for the weekend, Tadpole-less and, ahem, otherwise engaged…

So, as you can see, my last post was far from theoretical…

Let’s take a step back from the emotional rollercoaster of the past few weeks and take some time out for a little “know your petite” quiz.

The answers to the following questions (multiple choice, because I hail from the GCSE era, just) cannot be found on the blog. It’s all about predicting what you think might be right, from what you know already.

The first person to answer all the questions correctly in the comments box below will receive a very attractive and expensive personalised prize.

1. What is petite’s favourite television programme?

a) Keeping up appearances
b) 24
c) Nip/Tuck I do also like 24, but Nip/Tuck is just so naughty…
d) Navarro

2. Which of the following gentlemen has never graced petite’s bedroom wall?

a) John Taylor (Duran Duran – I was 11)
b) Bernard Sumner (New Order – I was 16)
c) Kurt Cobain (at university)
d) Johnny Depp

I stopped putting people on my wall after things happened to both Kurt Cobain and River Phoenix.

3. If Tadpole had been a boy, which of the following names made it to the shortlist?

a) George
b) Noah
c) Jean-François
d) Milo
e) Alfie

We racked our brains for a name which would work in French and English, but also go with Mr Frog’s Italian surname. We weren’t happy with our choice, but couldn’t think of anything else either. Would have pronounced it “meelo” and I knew nothing of the tweenies at the point, may I add.

4. Which of the following has petite never done?

a) had her belly button pierced
b) bungee jumped off a bridge
c) owned blue doc martens
d) been to a Bryan Adams concert

ahem. That concert. I was 13 and won a ticket. And had to go with my dad. I wish I hadn’t brought it up now…

5. Where did petite meet her current suitor?

a) at a blogmeet
b) at Leeds Bradford airport
c) in her comments box
d) at a speed dating evening
e) he’s an old flame

6. At school was petite…

a) editor of the school newspaper
b) a prefect
c) captain of the hockey team
d) none of the above

7. petite’s ambrosia is:

a) a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea
b) a glass of red wine and some dark chocolate
c) fish, chips and mushy peas, eaten outdoors
d) a jumbo pot of nutella and a spoon

I do like all of the above, but when I wrote the quiz I was hankering after fish and chips eaten out of the wrapper on the seafront at Whitby.

8. if petite was filthy rich, she would dress in:

a) Marc Jacobs
b) Valentino
c) Top Shop, regardless
d) Chanel

9. What is petite’s favourite film of all time?

a) Blue Velvet
b) Paris, Texas
c) Fight Club
d) Donnie Darko

By my calculations, 3.2, Leslie and Nardac all did rather well with 7/9.

I have posted today over here, just in case you were missing me…

The post is dedicated to the lovely Anna, for obvious reasons.

Can I just say how miffed I am not to have been nominated to participate in this. But as some very good virtual friends of mine are involved, please pay them a visit and watch them rip each other to shreds!

Blogmeet – Saturday 25 June

I am struggling to chase images of this out of my head. It has haunted me ever since I first read about it. When I told Mr Frog last night, I was fighting back tears as I spoke.

I know it makes universally distressing reading. But, quite apart from feeling sick to the pit of my stomach whenever I think about Abigail Witchalls’ ordeal, my brain insists on replaying images of how I imagine the attack, based on her own harrowing description. I strain to imagine how she must have felt. And what she is feeling now.

…I am pushing Tadpole along one of the more secluded country lanes near where my parents live. I hear the hum of an engine, and the crunch of wheels on loose road chippings as it passes me by slowly, time enough to make chilling eye contact with the driver. I know, instinctively, that this person means me harm…

I think of Abigail’s children. The unborn child that may or may not have survived, and her son, Joseph, just two months younger than Tadpole. I shudder to think what effect witnessing these events may have on this fledgling person. Feeling a strangers hands grabbing him from behind, holding a knife to his throat. Sensing his mother’s terror as she walked towards him, wide-eyed. Seeing the stranger hit his mummy with the knife, making her crumple to the floor. Tipped over, still strapped into his pushchair, left helpless by her side. The blood. Wondering why she was sleeping. Knowing that something must be badly wrong.

The articles I have read so far don’t tell me how they were found. I only hope that help wasn’t long in coming.

Joseph may be, mercifully, too young to actually remember the events of that day in years to come, but how can they fail to cast a long shadow over his life?

My powers of empathy fall short of imagining the anguish of waking up in a hospital bed with no feeling in my limbs. Robbed of the power of speech. Unable to hold my child to me and hug him fiercely, to sob noisily with relief that he is unharmed. Carrying a child in my belly that I may now never be able to hold. Whose name I may never be able to pronounce out loud.

I am at a loss to understand such a random act of cruelty. But I’m sure that no mother who has read about Abigail Witchalls will feel entirely safe taking their child along a quiet country road ever again.

SCENE 1

At the parental home, in Yorkshire, I am discussing the arrangements for my upcoming wedding with my mother over a cup of tea. The date we have opted for is June 9th. I realise with a jolt that I have forgotten to send out any invitations whatsoever. We haven’t even decided whether to tie the knot in a church or a registry office. Or indeed booked anything. There doesn’t seem to be any doubt that it will be taking place in England though. An odd choice to have made, as I actually prefer the idea of a civil wedding in a mairie in France, me wearing a fabulous, but non-wedding like, frock, Mr Frog in a Hedi Slimane suit and Tadpole by our side, wearing flowers in amongst her curls.

Panic surges from my stomach to my chest and then flutters against my ribcage like a moth trapped in a lamp. OH MY GOD! It seemed such a long way off, and now, suddenly, the wedding is imminent. And NOTHING is ready!

SCENE 2

We are discussing wedding catering with a sour-faced lady dressed in a pink viscose suit. The poor woman is trapped in the eighties: her suit even has shoulder pads. You can see a dent between where her shoulders end and the padding begins.

The catalogue she is clutching between chipped fuchsia fingernails reads “Pamela Keates’ Wedding Treats”. She opens her ‘portfolio’ (as she calls it) to a page showing a photograph of cheese and pineapple cubes on cocktail sticks, ingeniously stuck into a grapefruit covered in tin-foil.

I am inwardly weighing up the pros and cons of having a break in the wedding proceedings so that people can go out and buy their own dinner and then return later for a party. I can’t afford to feed everyone, and if I can’t do it properly, I say firmly to my mother, who has reappeared looking at least twenty years younger, then I’d rather not do it at all. There will be no cheese and pineapple on sticks at any wedding of mine. Although I quite fancy one now, if the lady has any samples on her.

SCENE 3

I am sitting in a church wearing a horrible fluffy, meringue-like wedding dress in a cheap, white crinkly fabric. My legs itch. It looks like one I saw in a dodgy bargain shop I spied from a bus once at La Chapelle, where nylon wedding dresses and satellite dishes were sold side by side. A winning combination.

I can smell the familiar scent of my father’s pipe, so he must be around somewhere, waiting impatiently to give me away. The tobacco smell reminds me of car journeys when I was younger. I suffered from motion sickness, and the pipe smoke nauseated me even further. But it’s ten years since he’s touched that pipe, so he must be very stressed indeed today. Not a good sign.

From my vantage point seated in the choir stalls, I can see the vicar, who is motioning to me from inside the open vestry. I don’t understand what he is trying to tell me, so I smile and wave. I am feeling pleased because there are fellow bloggers in the congregation who have come to my weddding from afar and even agreed to do readings during the service. I do hope Anna won’t say “cunty” in front of my mum.

I resolve to get changed out of my dress as soon as the church part is over, mentally scouring my wardrobe for something suitable, but worried that the only nice things are probably in the washing basket or the ironing pile. As usual.

Suddenly I hear a jingle for the BNP bank playing over the speakers, with accompaniment from the church organist for added dramatic effect. I realise that the priest must have been trying to ask me whether I minded him playing ads over the PA system at the start and finish of his service. I cower behind my veil in shame and horror. I was under the impression that we had paid an extra fee so that there would be no commercial breaks.

I turn to Mr Frog to see if he is angry with me for allowing his profession to encroach on “our special day” ™, but actually the person sitting next to me is no longer Mr Frog, it is my first ever boyfriend. His skin hasn’t cleared up yet, so it must still be 1990. Which means that he must be seventeen, as must I. The church suddenly feels gloomier, the damp walls closing in. I am having trouble breathing.

* * * *

I wake up, to the sound of ambulance sirens in the street below and Tadpole chanting “Nee Naw Nee Naw Nee Naw” from her bedroom.

I turn to Mr Frog, still grappling to shake off the residual feeling of panic : “I had an awful nightmare.”

“What was it this time?” he murmurs, sleepily.

“I was getting married,” I say.

“Oh. Who to?”

Friday. There is a mysterious new billboard campaign in the metro. For now, only teaser images are on display: attractive men and women (pretend to) yawn in a very aesthetically pleasing manner, photographed in all-forgiving black and white. Not even the merest glimmer of a filling in the back of their wide-open mouths. It is very difficult, I note, to walk past these adverts without yawning back at them; regardless of the time of day.

I quiz Mr Frog to see if he knows what the campaign is for, being as he is an insider in this business, but he hasn’t the faintest idea.

Sunday. We drive to Mailly Champagne in a borrowed car to visit Mr Frog’s cousin. If indeed ‘cousin’ is the right word to describe the relationship between Mr Frog and his father’s cousin’s daughter. Are they second cousins? First cousins once (or twice) removed? More complicated still, what exactly is Tadpole to this lady’s children?

To complicate matters further, Mr Frog’s grandparents, originally from Northern Italy, emigrated to France post WW2 with grandfather’s sister and grandmother’s brother, also married to one another. The brothers and sisters have lived in adjacent houses in a tiny village, an hour’s drive from Besançon, ever since. This tightly woven genetic heritage means that all their grandchildren were cousins to the power of two. A gang of assorted tanned children would spend idyllic summer holidays in the grandparents’ village, roaming wild in the fields around the (former farm)houses, playing hide and seek in haylofts and paddling in the village lavoir. Inevitably, as the second bottle of wine is uncorked, Mr Frog and his ‘cousin’ are overcome with nostalgia for their childhood escapades and I tend to tune out as familiar anecdotes are taken out and polished, and undoubtedly embellished, for the nth time.

But this was all yet to come. We had to actually get there first.

Mr Frog was instructed to print out directions to Mailly at work on Friday, as some time has elapsed since our last visit. I don’t bother with a printer at home, and as a no-car household we don’t even possess a road atlas. En route, hurtling along a rain-drenched Autoroute de l’Est, I examined Mr Frog’s itinerary, dismayed to see that all we had to work with, courtesy of Mappy, was:

quitter l’autoroute à la sortie n° 25
continuer sur la N51
entrer dans Reims
continuer sur la Route de Louvois (passer par un rond-point)
sortir de Reims et continuer sur la Route de Louvois
continuer sur la D9
prendre à gauche la D26

It was about as clear as our misted windscreen. Particularly without any sort of map to refer to (Mr Frog had omitted to print one), and given French road signs don’t generally indicate very clearly which ‘D’ or ‘N’ road you are driving along, or take it upon themselves to point out which road is referred to by the locals as la Route de Louvois. My boss’s mantra echoing in my head – “never assume anything” – I decided that it was the last time I would ask Mr Frog to take care of that kind of thing.

Suffice to say that we managed to add almost an hour onto our initial ninety minute journey, driving around in pointless loops, phoning relatives for garbled verbal directions and swearing not a little. On Tadpole duty, I had the pleasure of singing the theme tune to ‘Postman Pat’ approximately forty times, enthusiasm levels rapidly dwindling, to stave off an imminent toddler meltdown.

I think this may be my new definition of hell.

On the way home to Paris, several hours later, after a very French afternoon spent entirely à table, feasting and knocking back champagne from cousin’s husband’s family vines, I plugged my trusty ipod into the car stereo and let it shuffle, only nudging it on a track if I judged the selection too chaotic or profanity filled for toddler’s ears. The car stereo was hardly top of the range, the road surface was noisy, and a piece of the rubber seal on Mr Frog’s window was coming away, the cumulative effect of which was a fearsome amount of background noise. I cranked the volume up one notch, then two, then three, straining to hear the lyrics. Tadpole was reading her books, seemingly in a world of her own.

We embarked on a magical musical tour: Suede chasing Electronic, hot on the heels of Duran Duran and Goldfrapp. I eased the volume up progressively. Tadpole still didn’t react. I only realised an hour later, when I clambered into the back of the car, that there were actually more speakers back there. Just behind her head. We spent the rest of the journey in a guilty silence, traumatised that instead of giving Tadpole an eclectic musical education, we might instead have robbed her of the faculty of hearing altogether.

Monday. Feeling drained and listless after protracted car journey and champagne abuse. The posters in the metro still feature beautiful people yawning. Only now there is a tagline plastered over the top. “Re-Vittelisez-vous!”

I feel rather cheated that it is nothing more exciting than yet another incitement to drink bottled water.

I suspect it will take more than water to perk me up today, unless it is boiled and poured over powdered caffeine. With a crystal meth chaser.

Would you think it terribly rude if I sent you here again today?

Feel free to post any comments here at the mother ship – they may subsequently find their way onto the expatica site.

No, this one isn’t an April fishy.

A virtual friend pointed out to me that a montage at the beginning of this bbc news 24 programme featured images from www.petiteanglaise.com.

Only people already familiar with petite anglaise would have a clue what they are looking at, mind.

I’m suffering from blogger’s guilt.

If I don’t post tomorrow, my site will look forlorn, naked and neglected. The fonts will wilt, a layer of dust will settle on my header image and the disappointment of my regular visitors as they click on, then off again in disgust, will be almost tangible.

Sadly, as I’ll be leaving the parental home tomorrow morning and not arriving in Paris until late afternoon, writing will be nigh on impossible. Which means that, were I a conscientious soul, I would rustle up a little post for you now (Sunday evening) and then press the magic button which makes things publish in the future, with a startlingly convincing timestamp, say 9.04 am.

But it’s 00.05 and I’m just too weary and low (PMT if you must know) to deliver the goods. My apologies. Normal service will resume on Tuesday. You’re all on holiday today anyways, so you should have something better to do than read blogs all day, right?

news in brief

Highlights of Easter weekend: the look on Tadpole’s face when she first caught sight of herself in the mirror wearing pink, fluffy Easter bunny ears (courtesy of great grandma), and the perfect way she pronounced selected Yorkshire phrases (e.g. “ee by gum”) after a short but effective coaching session with grandad.

Just so no-one can accuse me of slacking off today… I did write something, but it’s here instead.

But feel free to comment here, as there are no comments enabled as yet chez expatica.

Am feeling exhausted today. Drained, wan and uninspired.

So I hope you will excuse me for foisting upon you a search terms post. Yes, that old lazy blogging chestnut. It is Friday after all. And I do pay sitemeter a handsome € 5 a month in order to be privy to this fascinating information, so I owe it to myself to get some mileage out of it occasionally.

To whom it may concern:

what does moi mean, in regards to drugs?
I think it means “Me, me, me, I want some, give them to ME”. I can’t think of any other possible explanation. Unless it’s an übercool new name for crystal meth. Sorry I can’t be of more assistance. Try asking metafilter. Metafilter knows everything.

suppository punishment (see also ginger suppository punishment)
Ok, so I didn’t know that ginger suppositories existed, but I do now. I fail to understand how I came to have the dubious honour of being number two on google for this search term, but I’m hoping that after today’s post, I’ll be in the coveted number 1 position.
(update: it worked!)

is the holy grail in the louvre?
Sign up for your own guided Da Vinci Code Tour here! Rates start from € 100 for an hour-long tour, in the company of petite anglaise, during which you may pay your respects to Mary, before taking in Virgin Records, Esprit, Natures et Decouvertes and Sephora.

petite porn
I hope after scrolling through twenty four pages of google results and clicking on every single result you weren’t too disappointed. I can’t decide whether to feel flattered that you chose to stay for four minutes.

how to mummify a tadpole?
???

Now it’s your turn. Make me giggle at my monitor. Please. I need all the help I can get to get through today.

When I visited our apartment a couple of years ago, arching my back so the agent immobilier would notice the fact that I would shortly be spawning a little Frog and move our dossier to the top of the pile, I was very taken with the hairdresser’s next door.

The psychedelic, rainbow coloured, curvy shop front looks rather like it has been fashioned out of papier mâché. The sign on the door reads “Paris – Ouagadougou – Gif sur Yvette”. The name: Les Intondables, which literally translated means something like the ‘unshavables’ or the ‘unshearables’. Tondre is a verb of which I am rather fond, given that it can mean to ‘mow (the lawn)’ or to ’shear’ (a sheep) as well as to shave your head. A tondeuse can therefore refer to either a small electric razor or a lawnmower.

But the best thing about the funky hairdressers’ is the music that booms out of their shop day in and day out. An eclectic mix which means that you never know quite what to expect, but are almost always pleasantly surprised. I often find myself humming along with a long forgotten track whilst poking around looking for post in amongst the junk mail and other unwelcome debris lurking in my letterbox. (‘Fools Gold’ by the Stone Roses was one of last week’s favourites, and I actually sang out loud to ‘Temptation’ by New Order. Do I sound old yet?)

Until last Saturday I had never crossed over the line and danced in the lobby however. As Mr Frog, Tadpole and I emerged from the lift on our way to the supermarket, our ears were greeted with the opening bars of ‘Bigmouth Strikes Again’ by The Smiths and Tadpole’s enthusiasm proved infectious. We are having something of a Smiths revival in our household, as Mr Frog brought his old CD’s back from the Evil’s so that I could put them on my Ipod. Tadpole seems to have taken a shine to Morrissey and enjoys ‘dancing’ (if it can be called that, being essentially arm waving at this stage) to ‘Vicar in a Tutu’ almost as much as to her other current favourite, ‘Head, Shoulders, knees and toes’.

Tadpole span round and round, waving her arms above her head and shrieking her appreciation, wobbling a little as she started to get rather dizzy. Mr Frog valiantly tried to encourage her to move her legs, executing the sort of moves that would make you howl with shame if you saw your dad doing something similar at a pub disco. Meanwhile yours truly was shaking her booty with reckloss abandon and yelling ‘wiggle wiggle? Go on [Tadpole], wiggle your bottom!’ Tadpole collapsed in a fit of giggles. I winked suggestively at Mr Frog (who was now doing his very best John Travolta impression, despite the fact that it did not match the music at all) and slapped my rear. Thank goodness we had the place to ourselves.

Except we didn’t.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I spied a shadowy figure in the stairwell, his silhouette outlined against the sunlight pouring in through the window. The bellowing music and the fact that the stairs are lined with carpet had allowed someone to creep up on us unnoticed.

I gestured to Mr Frog, who stopped mid-pose, looking rather like he was halfway through a spirited rendition of ‘I’m a little teapot’. There was an eery lull in the music – someone in the shop must be fumbling around for a new CD – and even Tadpole went silent, sensing that something was amiss. The man, a grumpy looking gentleman in his fifties with very bushy eyebrows, sidled past, maintaining a buffer zone between the dangerous whirling dervish people and himself, with not even the ghost of a smile. Perhaps he was worried that he might actually catch a sense of humour if he got too close?

When the door had swung safely shut behind him I collapsed in a quivering giggling mass.

It is at times like these that I am glad I remembered to do my pelvic floor exercises.

I wouldn’t like to be inside zoe’s head tomorrow as I think she should by rights have a stonking hangover.

In the other categories: Dooce cleaned up, as did the Gawker Media empire.

I was ‘watching’ the ceremony unfold on IRC (very amusing indeed and not a little suspenseful) and I have a transcript available on request (email me if you want one).

When my travel bag finally arrived, I was horrified to see that I had forgotten to pack my Spanish phrasebook.

I do understand quite a bit of Spanish when it is written down, having studied French (and even Latin) in the past, but I am woefully incapable of forming proper sentences which contain important elements like verbs and adjectives. GCSE Spanish, taken ‘for fun’ during my first year of A-Levels, is no more than a dim, distant memory and subsequent trips to Italy have muddied the waters somewhat. Even if I did manage to formulate a question successfully, there was no guarantee that I would understand a word of the reply.

Minus phrasebook, if I saw, for example, a cake in a bakery window and didn’t know what it was called but wanted to eat it (which occurred once approximately every 500 m) but didn’t think I’d be able to see it from the till – let alone point at it – I had to renounce any hope of eating it altogether. My thighs are probably grateful for this enforced restraint, but I found the whole experience very frustrating indeed.

I pride myself on my ‘almost Frenchness’ as I go about my daily business in Paris. I panted through my ante-natal classes in French, not to mention swearing loudly and colourfully at Mr Frog and the angelic midwife throughout the labour itself. I like to consider myself a world apart from the tourists I see every day speaking English loudly and slowly to shop assistants in the Opéra district where I work, giving them disdainful, superior looks and thinking to myself how rude they are not to make more of an effort to speak a few words of French, rather than assuming everyone here speaks some English.

In Spain, however, I became precisely that tourist I had previously despised, just about managing a “habla ingles o frances, por favor?”, blushing all the while, and then lapsing into slow, carefully enunciated, extra-loud English. I might as well have been dressed in bermuda shorts (shiver: it was sunny but very cold) with a large camera dangling from my neck.

I promise I will never give a poor, wretched tourist a superior look ever again (well, at least until next week). Maybe they all simply forgot to pack their phrasebooks, so who am I to pass judgement without being in possession of the facts?

Luckily we had a part-time guide in Madrid, a friend and former colleague of Mr Frog’s, and he taught us everything we needed to know:

una caña por favor

Repeat to fade.

As you know, Mr Frog and I are eloping to Madrid this weekend. Weather permitting. And minus the wedding. Actually I plan to spend some quality time sleeping in, shoveling tapas down my gullet and putting my credit cards through their paces, reminding them of the meaning of the phrase ‘retail therapy’.

Our hotel claims to have internet connections and all manner of hi tech accoutrements, but as I don’t have a laptop, I doubt I will be able to blog before I get home on Tuesday evening.

Feel free to trawl through the archives in my absence (even if on older posts the comments are closed in an attempt to prevent trackback spam). You might find the categories in the sidebar useful.

May I also suggest that you pay a gag reflex a visit, start from the beginning, and read to the end. I can’t read any of Cori’s posts without imagining her story being translated to the silver screen and aired at Sundance to rapturous applause.

And blogmeeters, I will finalise details for Friday 11th upon my return. It looks like we might meet early (from 7pm) to allow for people who need to catch a train/RER home and the bar we choose will have snack options, so that no-one hits the floor before at least 8.30pm.

Okay? Right. Talk amongst yourselves. Nothing to see here…

update: we got here (albeit minus my luggage which arrived ten hours later than I did) and despite it being rather unseasonally chilly, we are still mightily enjoying the change of scenery, lack of pushchair and terrifyingly cholesterol-rich diet. The same, alas, cannot be said for this Spanish-not-quite-qwerty keyboard, which keeps tricking me into putting ñ´s in the most inappropriate places…

I woke up this morning at 6.30 am to the sound of Fun Radio. Tadpole had evidently been re-tuning the radio again. I don’t know which is worse, shouty disc jockeys playing French RnB (pale and rather dodgy imitation of American RnB) or Mr Frog’s preferred news channel. Someone should conduct a scientific study into the long-term effects of waking up to the word “war” or “corruption” every morning.

I realised that Mr Frog was now beside me, although he hadn’t been when I fell asleep shortly after midnight.

“T’es rentré à quelle heure, finalement?” I mumble.

“Vers deux heures trente” he replies, sheepishly.

I open my eyes. He looks terrible: pale and drawn and ten years older.

I choke back tears of pure rage and bury my head in the pillow. I realise this reaction is not going to make the poor guy feel any better, but I can’t help myself.

I have never been introduced to any of Mr Frog’s bosses at the Agency, even if they are English speakers and we could well have a lot in common. This is, I suspect, because Mr Frog is worried I might bare my teeth and growl at somebody. Or launch myself at them, fists flying (ineffectually).

I simply cannot stand to watch the client walk all over their team, making demands which become ever more unreasonable, basically amounting to “can you just bend over a bit more – yes, that’s right, the angle’s just perfect – so I can shaft you more thoroughly”. (Pardon my French, but I did warn you I was angry.) No-one dares to stand up to the client, to defend their right to a life outside work, to say, “no, what you are asking is just plain impossible, and we cannot do a U-Turn this late in the day.” But no, instead they just line up and drop their trousers.

For the last two weekends Mr Frog has worked. Both in the office, and using a borrowed laptop at home. Almost every morning he has been long gone before Tadpole and I awoke, returning hours after Tadpole’s bedtime. The way things are going this week, he won’t see her until Friday morning. Five days later.

It tears holes in my heart when I wake Tadpole in the morning and one of the first things she says is “Va voir daddy?” in a hopeful little voice. I explain, sighing, that daddy had to leave early today. She nods, but toddles off in her pyjamas to check the bathroom and the bedroom anyway. Once she’s sure I am telling the truth, she says flatly “Daddy gone. Office.”

Yesterday she blew some kisses at the front door. For daddy. Wherever he might be.

This morning was the last straw. Mr Frog had worked from 8.00 am until 2.30am. He was taking the 07.55 Thalys to Brussels, to give a powerpoint presentation about strategy to the client. On four hours sleep, after working 16 consecutive days. I heard him coughing this morning in the bathroom in a telltale way . Nerves.

I have to get him out of there, whatever it takes. Forget buying a flat, forget financial security.

Otherwise they will chew him up and spit him out and I’ll be left picking up the pieces of my broken frog off the floor.

If you have eagle eyes you will note that this site has travelled back in time to approximately 1am Friday 17 February. This was due to a little glitch in my upgrade to the newest version of wordpress (which I didn’t need to have, but it has so many new features how could I not?) A tiny little problem that with my heavy handedness I managed to turn into a major fiasco, deleting my blogger posts from July to September in the process.

The good news is that it has been rescued and my old posts are back where they belong.

The bad news is that I need to fiddle a bit to make it look right, and I lost all your comments from today on the last 3 posts. Sorry about that. I might paste some of them back in again later, I saved them in a cunning word document and I especially liked the anonymous declaration from a ‘mystery admirer’. (I have your IP address anonymous, and I’ll track you down eventually!)

I will be tweaking a bit this weekend. I’ll try not to break anything this time, promise.

And thank you podz. I don’t know if you go around rescuing damsels in distress like this all the time, but in any case, this one is truly grateful!

As the main problem I was trying to solve involved comments, I’d be grateful if when you stop by this weekend you could drop me a line to show that you can! I can’t test this function myself, because as site admin I am treated differently to you mere mortals…!

The rational part of my brain was berating me for letting a a seemingly insignificant thing overwhelm me. The rest of me was a quivering mass of panic, Panic, PANIC, pulse racing, adrenaline flowing, feeling utterly, terrifyingly helpless.

The weekend began with the purchase of a new computer. Something that had been planned for a while, as my trusty companion since 2000 was not even compatible with XP. Or Ipods. And was starting to labour a bit if I tried to use anything remotely interesting like Dreamweaver or Photoshop. And so it came to pass that I added a a powerful but not too expensive new toy to my shopping basket and Frog, Tadpole and I went to collect it from Surcouf in a borrowed car this weekend.

Surcouf is a computer warehouse shop, located in the seventh circle of hell. Vast, intimidating and filled with swarms of teenage boys with skin problems at the weekends. The salespeople are young, incompetent and – apologies for the generalisation – mostly de la caillera (backslang for racaille: literal meaning = scum; commonly used to describe young folk from the dodgier suburbs, who may or may not be dressed like British ‘chavs’).

I marched straight to the collection room brandishing my internet receipt and queued up in front of a large printed sign which read ‘desktops’. Charming young gentleman at the desk, growling: ‘C’est là -bas, vous savez pas lire ou quoi?’ (‘the queue is over there, can’t you read?’) Ah yes, a handwritten post it note attached to the ‘laptops’ sign did indeed read ‘internet orders’. Cheeks flaming I fled. French customer service: an exercise in humiliation.

Home sweet home and several hours of saving things from the old computer later, I emerged from a spaghetti of computer wiring, covered in the clumps of fluffy dust you only find behind electrical appliances (rather appropriately called ‘moutons’ in French). And switched it on.

It sounded like a HAIRDRYER.

I began to wish I hadn’t made quite such an impulsive purchase. I dimly recall having read somewhere once that AMD processors can overheat and tend to need very strong fans to keep them cool.

Perhaps the fact that the computer was called Aspiro should have sent alarm bells ringing. Not Aspiro as in aspirational or something nice and positive. Aspiro as in ‘aspirateur’ (French: hoover, vaccuum cleaner). The smiling lady pictured on the box was probably wearing cunningly concealed earplugs.

Gritting my teeth, determined to pretend that it didn’t sound like I was sitting in front of a jumbo jet propellor, I loaded up the antivirus, spyware destroyer and firewall first, like the sensible girl I am. I noted, with annoyance, that XP was in French. A lovely language, but one which has no business to be on my operating system. Another point I had gaily overlooked while making my purchase.

I then spent the rest of the day duelling with a particularly resistant browser hijacker. I removed it, it came back. Repeat to fade. Each time the red spyware alert popped up to say that the little f*$@&r was trying to re-install itself, I edged one step closer to meltdown. A cool, white, padded cell started to look soothing and attractive.

And forgive me for sharing what could be seen as too much information, but I note that the laxative properties of viruses and spyware are really quite remarkable.

I think it’s gone now. Fingers crossed. But I have to admit I am dreading going home and switching on the hairdryer from hell just in case that pop up message comes back again. I simply can’t face wiping clean a brand new computer and reinstalling everything. I had nightmares about it last night. I’m an untidy bundle of nerves.

How is it that these machines are able to wield such power over us? And why didn’t I shack up with a geekfrog who could sort these things out. Why oh why?

How very inconsiderate of my boss to give me stacks of work to do. I’ve got a responsibility to my visitors to come up with a new post this morning. Really, it’s not on.

In the meantime, my virtual self is over at Rachie’s place at a party, and we need males. In fancy dress. Or a state of undress. We’re not fussy. (Well, I’m not anyway).

See you there?

…is hearing indirectly that petite anglaise has been nominated for a 2005 bloggie in the Best New Weblog category, but not actually being able to access the site (bandwidth limit exceeded).

Sincere, heartfelt thanks to anyone who nominated me. You have made my day!

In the meantime, if you are privy to info about who the other nominees are among my blogfriends, please let me know via the comment box. The suspense is killing me!

Ahem. If like me you are unable to get on the bloggies site, why not exercise your voting finger here (in three categories) in the meantime? If I win anything, I undertake to post a picture of self wearing satin pyjamas to mark the occasion.

I also won €2 on a St Valentin scratchcard and received my £16.00 Ipod today. I don’t think things could get any better. Unless JonnyB finally relents and puts me on his blogroll, that is.

Drifting across the raised stage area in the nightclub, my body is at boiling point, butterflies thrash around in the pit of my stomach, tall, roaring, violent waves surge through me, a panic attack, tachycardia, I’m going to explode any minute. But I know it won’t last. This chaotic, out of control sensation will bottom out and soon my mind will relax into, lock onto the music and my body will dance as if on autopilot for hours on end.

The dj is mixing seamlessly, playing his signature brand of uplifting, hypnotic music with minimal singing, but layer upon layer of gorgeous, echoing sounds which vibrate deep inside my body, and build to crescendos so indescribably gorgeous they are almost unbearable. There is a whooshing sound and I’m soaring, hands reaching upward, body tingling all over, arms bristling with goosepimples, thighs teased by the touch of my gauzy dress which glows under the UV lights.

I’m oblivious to the other people around me, whether they be friends or strangers. Some guy whispers incomprehensible words in my ear and I flash him a beatific smile as I turn away, close my eyes and carry on dancing, locked inside my own private world, mesmerised by my own eyelids, heart racing, chest a little heavy and tight…

…and then my bulky cd walkman falls out of my bra, yanking the headphones out of my ears, forcing me brutally out of my flashback and back into the disappointing reality of my bedroom.

I open my eyes and see the pile of ironing on the bed, groaning as I slide off the exercise bike to pick up the walkman.

I wonder when my Ipod is due to arrive.

This post is not intended to address the subject of whether certain recreational activities are right/wrong/ill-advised/dangerous. It is simply me trying to put into words how my body remembers certain feelings with the right musical stimulus.

If you live in Europe, why not bid in my charity ebay auction. There are four separate lots of perfume (for men and women). All proceeds will be given to Oxfam to aid victims of the Tsunami. I will post a copy of the donation receipt to the seller.

update: € 130 have been donated to Oxfam. Thank you for your generosity. There is still a Michael Kors for men perfume up for grabs. It hasn’t sold on Ebay, but please contact me directly if you are interested in buying it.

Thank you
Your transaction has been processed on behalf of OXFAM.

Thank you very much for your generous gift of EUR130.00 to support Oxfam’s work throughout the world.

For more than 60 years Oxfam has been turning donations such as yours into positive action which is transforming the lives of some of the world’s poorest people. Together we have helped farming families to get more from their land; given children the chance to go to school; and ensured that opportunities are open to everyone – even the most vulnerable – in a community. We’ve also campaigned for changes in policies, both locally and internationally, which will ensure that poor people’s efforts are properly rewarded.

To read more about what we do and find out how you can get more involved, including making a regular donation, just click here: http://www.oxfam.org.uk

If you’d like to talk to someone about Oxfam’s work, please call 0870 333 2700 and we’ll be more than happy to help.

Thank you once again for your valuable support.

Barbara Stocking
Director, Oxfam

PLEASE DO NOT REPLY TO THIS EMAIL. If you have any questions, please email mailto:giving@oxfam.org.uk

Oxfam works with others to find lasting solutions to poverty and suffering.
Oxfam is a company limited by guarantee and registered in London No. 612172.
Registered office 274 Banbury Road, Oxford, OX2 7DZ
Registered Charity No. 202918. Tel: 0870 333 2700.
————————————————————————-
Donation details:
————————————————————————-
Donation for the value of: EUR130.00
From: OXFAM
Charity’s cart ID: 2004LNB001
Pre-Authorisation Date/Time: 24/Jan/2005 14:35:43
Transaction ID: 101290100
This is not a tax receipt.

As I trudged up the stairs to our office this morning at 9.07 am, wearing my habitual pre-espresso blank expression and grunting at colleagues who unwisely attempted to engage me in conversation, for some reason I was reminded of My Most Embarassing Office Moment.

Rewind to a couple of years ago, when I had been working for my current employer for six months or so. Our office is in an old Haussmannien building in an historic, chic part of town close to the Louvre and the old Opéra Garnier. It consists of two floors which were originally separate offices, linked by a staircase which was added by our company. The staircase looks perfectly normal: carpeted stairs with a metal lip (a nez de marche in French, although I am unclear about what noses have to do with anything), with a 180° turn at the halfway point and some triangular steps around the corners.

Despite their innocuous appearance I have watched and heard many people fall up and down these stairs. Most just stumble noisily, often as they run up too fast. Quite how anyone can muster enough enthusiasm to run anywhere whilst at work is beyond me. Unless an announcement has just been made that there is cake or chocolate to be found in the upstairs kitchen. My desk looks directly onto the staircase, so I am often to be found trying (and failing) to supress a snigger as yet another colleague falls flat on his/her face.

One fateful day, when I was wearing rather high heels and was asked to take some documents down to a meeting on the floor below, I too fell victim to the curse of the stairs. I think I missed one step altogether, and I found myself plunging forwards in slow motion. For some reason my instincts were not all about self preservation, because instead of dropping the papers and using my hands to grab a bannister, I hung onto the papers for dear life and just fell headlong. The documents, unsurprisingly, did not break my fall. Result: two shins gashed open on the metal stair edges before I came to a halt on a wide triangular stair. Although I don’t remember hitting my head, I fainted and was out cold for a couple of minutes. In the meantime, a gallant colleague had rushed to my aid and it was his face I saw as I came to my senses and started pulled at my skirt, my first thought being that I might be flashing my knickers. And I couldn’t remember which pair I had on.

I was half carried downstairs to the kitchen where sweet tea was administered and a doctor called to take a look at my legs. The senior partner popped in to see me, but whilst he was talking to me I became I aware that his gaze was drifting under the table. Apparently it wasn’t the gash on my leg he was inspecting, it was my frivolous choice of footwear. Just in case I might be contemplating suing the firm on account of their dodgy staircase, he was assessing the unsuitableness of my shoes. I was on the verge of asking him if he wanted a photograph, but decided against it.

The next month was spent filling in forms and bouncing back letters from the French Sécurité Sociale, because even though I was only signed off work for a measly half day, the fact that it was an accident de travail meant that a particular protocol had to be followed. I was supposed to see a doctor just after the event, and another to pronounce that I was fit to work again. Which clearly I didn’t do, as I could hardly summon over two doctors in the space of one afternoon.

It’s not difficult to see why the French social security system is billions of euros in the red. I was bombarded with letters from an over-zealous fonctionnaire (civil servant) for six months because that missing piece of paper from the doctor’s visit I didn’t make was preventing her from closing her file.

You may be wondering why this episode qualifies for the prestigious title of Most Embarassing Office Moment. Well, the following day, upon returning to the office, it became apparent that my knight in shining armour was not so gallant after all.

He had kindly made public the fact that for the entire duration of the two minutes I was out for the count, I was snoring. Rather loudly.

I just won a 40gb Ipod for £16.00 in one of the Guardian charity Christmas auctions! I don’t know why, but I was convinced I had won from the moment I sent off my five little bids on 27 December and I’ve been checking my gmail every day ever since.

If you fancy a shot at an Ipod whilst also giving money to charity (including tsunami fund) then click here!

I think 2005 is going to be a good year after all.

I only have one New Year’s Resolution for 2005 and that is to find a way to reduce the size of my blogger’s bottom. While it may be very comfortable for sitting purposes, I caught sight of it in a 360° mirror in a changing room the other day and it was looking a little too J-Lo esque for my liking. So out with the pasta, in with the watercress soup and on with the old Renaissance cd’s while I pedal away on my exercise bike. Which is pretty much the only exercise I can do these days given that my only free time is in the evening while the Tadpole sleeps.

I don’t think Mr Frog has got around to making any resolutions, so here are a few of my recommendations. Not that I’m trying to change him or anything. But should he wish to make amends for New Year’s Eve…

1. Stop smoking. It doesn’t smell very nice. It will likely send you to an early grave. And it makes you snore.
2. When you go out drinking, please leave your Vespa at work and get a taxi. And don’t give me any of that ‘I only had a couple’ nonsense. I struggle to believe that between the hours of 9pm and 3am you ‘only had a couple’. Even if you are French, and therefore a bit of a lightweight.
3. Buy flowers for your [insert pet name here]. Often. Or at the very least on her birthday.
4. Come home from work before 10pm. It would be nice to see you on weekdays. However, arriving during Eastenders is ill advised.
5. When you phone to say you will be home in half an hour, do not turn up two hours later. There is a chance (however slim) that I may have taken it into my head to get some dinner ready for your ETA. If you do arrive 2 hours later, see recommendation n° 3.
6. Practice reciting the following indispensable English phrases:

   ‘Would you like a cup of tea, luv?’
   ‘No, wait, let me do that ironing.’
   ‘Don’t be silly, you’ve done enough today, just put your feet up while I fetch you tea/chocolate/cake and I’ll wash up.’

7. When buying the mother of your child a gift of underwear, please ensure that the pair of pants you use as a size guide do not strongly resemble maternity pants.
8. If your better half is blogging with headphones on, refrain from disturbing her and simply place the tea/chocolate/cake you are holding next to the computer.

On second thoughts, please replace tea/chocolate/cake above with tea and one stick of celery. How depressing.

A group of young French teenagers caught my attention in the metro yesterday. There was something familiar about the way the girls were talking in louder than necessary voices, laughing too much and sneaking covert glances at a group of boys standing nearby. This sight transported me back two decades, and I saw my eleven year old self catching the school bus. As I attended a girls’ grammar school, the only exposure my friends and I had to opposite sex was on daily journeys to and from school. Our aim was to occupy the front seat on the top deck, where we took centre stage and ‘performed’, hopeful that we might catch the eye of the heartthrob of the moment.

These childish attempts at seduction were unsuccessful, of course, as you will know if you read my previous post about national health glasses. A pity, with hindsight, because the object of my affections went on to become a national tv star, and even dated Ulrike Jonsson for a while.

But let’s get back to the French teenagers. Their flirtatious behaviour was identical to any English teenager’s, except for one important detail. As each one neared their metro stop, the conversation came to a seemingly pre-agreed momentary halt whilst each and every fellow schoolmate was given la bise. Imagine how potentially loaded with information that innocent gesture could be. You could choose to kiss the air, accidentally-on-purpose brush a cheek with your lips, or execute proper lip smacking pecks of varying durations. As you change from one side to the other, you could conceivably brush the other person’s lips. Quite frankly, highly strung as I was at that age I think I would have swooned at such intimate contact.

La bise is second nature to the French. For a foreigner like myself it is a minefield.

First of all, there is the matter of how many kisses you are supposed to bestow. In Paris the norm seems to be two. In certain Parisian suburbs however you are expected to give four (which must be time consuming when you have to take your leave of a party of ten people). In some regions three is the customary number. Many a time I have proffered my cheeks twice, only to find that I was expected to go two full rounds.

The other ‘unknown’ which makes things awkward is that I have never understood which side I am supposed to start with. Whichever I choose seems to be instinctively wrong: causing an embarrassed direction change in mid-air to correct the trajectory. I’m sure if I asked Mr Frog which side to start on he would say that there is no right or wrong answer. It probably comes under the heading of innate French knowledge which I will never by privy to, however many years I spend in France.

How does one know in which situations an ‘I work in fashion daahling’ air-kiss is expected, or when it is appropriate to give an enthusiastic peck on one/more cheeks? I invariably air kiss (English reserve: I prefer to give too little rather than too much) and when the other person plants a proper kiss on my cheek and I feel like I’ve insulted them by not reciprocating.

Last dilemma: to kiss or not to kiss? The other evening I noticed Tadpole’s playmate’s mum giving our shared nanny a kiss when she greeted her. That would never feel natural to me. Nanny gets la bise on two special occasions only: her birthday and at New Year (when it is compulsory to kiss everyone).

The plot thickens when I return to the UK: at some point during my prolonged absence, continental-style cheek kissing was adopted by my peers. I don’t know if it’s the circles I move in or a more generalised phenomenon. So now I am faced with a similar dilemma when I greet my long-lost English friends. What is expected: a shy, awkward English ‘hello’ with no physical contact whatsoever, a kiss on one cheek and an affectionate squeeze, an air kiss on both sides?

The solution: read the book pictured above, written by a person with a reassuringly posh sounding double-barrelled name and dubious royal credentials.

On second thoughts, this one might be more suitable for beginners/dunces like myself.

I have a song called “Ice Pulse” by the Cocteau Twins stuck in my head.

This is because I went to see ‘Tarnation’ at the weekend with Mr Frog. We had seen a documentary about it on Canal+ and I felt it was a film that definitely deserved to be seen on a big screen with surround sound. I wasn’t wrong.

Of course if you live in the UK/US/anywhere but France, you probably saw this flim aeons ago. For some reason it has only just been released here. If you haven’t seen it, I urge you to do so.

The director, Jonathan Caouette, has assembled footage of his family from the past twenty years (photos, Super8 footage, video) and set it to a soundtrack of music, answering machine messages and letters to tell the story of his life so far. Caouette had a disturbed childhood to say the least: his mother Renée suffered from mental illness (possibly caused by a series of shock treatments ill-advisedly administered in her teens) and was repeatedly institutionalised; infant Jonathan was abused in foster care before being adopted by his grandparents. Having spent a very brief spell in foster care myself, before my adoption as a baby, I cannot find words to describe how livid it makes me to hear of children being abused when they are at their most vulnerable and desperately need support from the adults entrusted with their care.

In spite of the subject matter, ‘Tarnation’ is a very uplifting film: Caouette has faced his demons and although a lingering fear remains that one day he too may suffer from mental illness like Renée, he seems to be in a good place right now with a very supportive partner and, in his own words, he is closer to his mother than ever before.

Unfortunately, four things were nagging at me during the film and marred my enjoyment somewhat.

The first was that I was trying in vain to remember the name of a semi-autobiographical novel I had read which reminded me of this film. I’ve finally found it, after a few google searches that I hope my employer will not hold against me (search terms “trailer trash rent boy”). The book I was thinking of was ‘Sarah’ by J T Leroy. Apparently I’m not the only one to have made this connection as I found an article on the interweb where Caouette and Leroy are interviewed together.

The second thing was that the complete stranger on my left and I laughed at all the same things (in particular, Caouette’s staging of a musical version of Lynch’s ‘Blue Velvet’ at high school, to a soundtrack of Marianne Faithful songs), while the Frog didn’t react at all. I started to wonder whether we were soulmates after all. But then I reminded myself that he is and will always remain a philistine (he has never read a work of fiction in all the years I have known him and generally prefers films which have a car chase/a shoot out/both) and I don’t suppose he will ever change. And if I’m honest, I quite like feeling culturally superior to him.

Thirdly, the Frog had purchased a large tub of (salty) popcorn and this was not a popcorn film. The French, you see, take their cinema rather seriously. Small art-house cinemas abound in the capital where popcorn is not even on sale. In this instance, although we were in a UGC cinema, which ressembles a Warner Bros or similar in the UK, most people in the audience were not eating and drinking. There appears to be an unwritten rule about the type of film in which popcorn is permissible (e.g. a Hollywood blockbuster) and the type of film where it is not. So I found myself snatching handfulls of popcorn surreptitiously during the loud music bits (because we hadn’t yet eaten and it was too tempting) but feeling very guilty and conspicuous and un-French for doing so.

And to top it all off, I needed the loo. From about half an hour into the film (it was 88 minutes long). And when the final credits rolled, I couldn’t even sprint to the bathroom because I needed to see what the name of the Cocteau Twins song was.

And that brings us full circle…

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…

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.

Welcome to the fruit of my labours. I have lost count of the hours spent fiddling with css and other things I don’t even pretend to understand, but I think it’s time to give my bloodshot eyes a rest now and just get on with the blogging.

I have tested this site in IE6 and Mozilla Firefox. If you have another browser and there are any display problems, please let me know and I will see what I can do to fix them.

Just a few things are unfinished:

• comments will be coming in shortly from my haloscan archives
• my July posts still need a bit of reformatting to add the images and update the links to other posts on this site
• …and I’ll probably fiddle with the layout a bit more as I’m never satisfied

Incidentally, the photo in my header is the view of Paris from my balcony, taken with my own fair hands . It should also work as a link back to the homepage. I haven’t worked out yet how to incorporate the ‘brit eye’ image from my blogger site into the new layout, but would welcome any suggestions as it sums up what I’m about rather nicely.

I have a problem with the euro. I’m not against the concept of it, in fact I think the UK should adopt it – if only to make it easier for me to pay off my student loan without having to make lots of expensive bank transfers. My problem is with getting my head ’round how much the things are actually worth.

The euro became legal tender in France on 1st Jan 2002, so you’d think I’d have had chance adjust to the ‘new’ currency by now. However, until recently, prices were shown both in French francs and euros. So it was possible to pay in euros, without actually thinking in euros. Yours truly carried on thinking in francs, and probably lopping off a zero for good measure and converting francs to British pounds… This strategy was fatally flawed as I left the UK a decade ago and my notion of what things cost there is approximate to say the least. Do you mean to say a Twix doesn’t cost 13p any more?

These days without the guidance of francs on the price tags I must confess I don’t have much idea how much cash I’m handing over. I tip waiters either far too much or far too little, and the total of my weekly supermarket shop is always a painful surprise. The latter is partly due to the fact that most shops saw the euro as a golden opportunity to hike up their prices and indulge in a wholesale rounding-up exercise, knowing full well that your average customer was going to take a long time to realise that euro cents are worth rather more than the old franc centimes (50c. = 34p).

This admission, coming from a mathematically-challenged person who freely admits to still counting on her fingers, probably doesn’t shock anyone. But I’d quite like to know whether I’m alone on this? Am I?

There I was reading in the metro on my way home last night, minding my own business and just glancing up occasionally to peer through the carriage window and check I hadn’t missed my stop (which I have been known to do when immersed in a good book).

As I glanced up at one station, craning my neck to see the sign which was way off to my right, I noticed the middle-aged man sitting opposite was grinning inanely. One of his shirt buttons appeared to be undone, and out of the corner of my eye I could see a bit of flesh sticking out of the gap…

Except it wasn’t his shirt that was undone. And not only was he grinning, but also pointing southwards with his fingers.

What is one to do in such situations? I pretended not to have noticed, buried my face in my book, counted the metro stations in my head and then fled without a backward glance.

Dear blog fairy, I have plenty of material. Please don’t put me in awkward situations like that just so I can write about them. Honestly, I can manage without you…

My parents are stuck on the last question in the Nether Poppleton Gardener’s guild quiz. Help them win a wheelbarrow by finding a word to link the following:

BACK GLASS CAT

Example: WIRE links LESS FUSE MESH

Stumped, I am.

Well I’ve just been weblogreviewed. I think both reviews are very fair but obviously have a soft spot for Yetzirah’s.

On balance I agree with Brent’s criticisms: even though I’ve tried to personalise my blogspot template as much as I can, I’m only too aware of its limitations – particularly the fact that it misbehaves in mozilla – and am in the process of attempting to design something more personal using wordpress…*

In the interests of clarity – as Brent obviously didn’t stumble across the what’s in a name post which explains why this site is named petite anglaise, I’ve added a link to it in the synopsis in the menubar on the right. Read it if you haven’t already!

Oh, and Mr Frog wasn’t too impressed at being called Mr Toad.

But he’ll live.

*Well, actually, I will admit that I only managed to install Wordpress on my future site host at 2am this morning – after going around in unproductive circles for several hours and with blind panic setting in – with the help of a lovely support forum person going by the name of podz who held my hand long-distance and effortlessly made all my problems disappear. Podz, I salute you.

The last birthday I enjoyed was number 30: I had a big party, knocked back several litres of mojitos, and polaroids were taken to immortalise the event. It was the occasion of my last ‘proper’ hangover, as I realised a couple of days later that I was pregnant. Got very out of practice after that and haven’t properly regained by beer legs since then.

I don’t remember what I did last year for 31. 32 doesn’t feel like much cause for celebration. This year has after all seen me go from Mademoiselle to Madame at the bakers shop. Even though I have no wedding ring. And no-one tries to grope me in the metro any more.

Miss Tadpole woke up on her birthday to a living room full of balloons. I woke up this morning to comatose Frog with hangover and the usual race against the clock to get Tadpole and I out of the door on time, preferably wearing clean clothes. No-one at work remembered. My boss took me out for lunch, but I realised that this was in fact a coincidence as the subject of my birthday didn’t come up during conversation.

As family and friends are mostly in the UK, they sent cards with vague promises of gifts next time I’m over. The card from my mother featured Miffy and was intended more for the Tadpole’s pleasure than my own. Even my present from the Frog – a mini camera so I can post pics to this blog – hasn’t been delivered yet.

So, YES, you’re damn right I’m feeling sorry for myself.

Have a heart: post your worst birthday ever story into the comments below to cheer me up.

Well what with blogger publishing not functioning all day today, I have been keeping myself occupied sorting out hosting, configuring accounts, entering passwords left, right and centre and uploading wordpress. Now I think I’ve hit a dead end waiting for DNS server redirects to be activated. Or something. I only half understand what I’m doing: very steep learning curve involved.

Hopefully the end result will be a more personalised design and a site which lives at www.petiteanglaise.com.

Watch this space.

Sheep in suspenders doing karate, raunchy young wenches in ovengloves baking lasagna, Britney Spears in a fur-trimmed negligé contemplating a mountain of ironing, secret webcam shows saucy antics in the girls’ locker room, bored housewives watching Richard and Judy wearing heated rollers, the kama sutra on ice interpreted by Torville & Dean, George W and his secret harem of Brasilian ladyboys playing golf in Austrian national dress. Kirsty Allsopp’s sex therapist spills the beans about her client’s BDSM fantasies. Fancy a change of career? Free pole dancing and lap dancing tuition here

Sorry. It was purely for my own amusement when I browse the sitemeter stats to see how people got here and using which search words.

A proper post will follow shortly.

It’s that sinister time of year when the advertising industry concentrates its efforts on making French schoolchildren lust after all manner of scholastic paraphernalia in the name of la rentrée. This is, in my opinion, a rare example of France actually outdoing the UK on the rampant commercialism front.

In every supermarket and department store in the land you will find aisle upon aisle of exercise books, stationery supplies, pencil cases and rucksacks bearing the latest cool kiddy/teen brand logos. Clothes and sports shops are clearly in on the conspiracy too. The implication being that if your child does not start the new school year with a completely new (preferably designer) wardrobe, an Olympic standard sports kit and a shiny new bag containing the equivalent of half of the WH Smiths stationery department, you are a bad parent and your child will be a social outcast. It’s a very serious business: I have seen mothers nearly in tears because they have left their rentrée shopping too late and there are no more Spiderman ring binders to be had for love nor money.

I’m belatedly understanding why compulsory school uniforms are “a good thing”. French schoolchildren do have a self-imposed uniform of sorts: jeans and trainers. But as your child’s popularity level is directly proportional to the coolness of the brand name emblazoned on his/her jeans and trainers, imagine the guilt you have to live with if you can only afford something from C&A?

French schoolchildren buy all their own books, including exercise books, and then cart them around all day as lockers don’t appear to exist, with the result that every year we are treated to an item on the 8 o’clock news about the dangers of little people carrying rucksacks exceeding their own bodyweight. And they do – because homework starts at the age of six. I wish I was joking. Responsible parents are encouraged to invest in a bag on wheels not dissimilar to your average granny’s shopping trolley. Surely owning one of those is social suicide?

Right now I’m breathing a HUGE sigh of relief that my little tadpole won’t be starting school for another two years (at the ripe old age of three ???!!!?) I need some time to psychologically prepare myself for the soul-destroying experience of going against all my principles and buying her the fluorescent pink Barbie rucksack and matching accessories she is bound to want.

I would have loved to regale today you with tales of life in the provinces, French chavs I have known and loved, and of course the latest antics of my evil in-laws.

Sadly I spent most of the day wrestling with an inconsiderate worm instead and now my energy is ebbing away.

This is why I favour blogging from ‘work’, where functioning computers abound and there is an (irritating but efficient) IT chap at my disposal. And the added benefit of not having a toddler trying to type things while I’m struggling put a stop to the annoying little clock ticking away twenty seconds to system meltdown.

So, off to Brittany tomorrow. Back in gay Paree next Saturday. I predict rain – it has followed me around both sides of the Channel for the past fortnight, so a safe bet – and teething will be my major preoccupations, along with eating as many crèpes with nutella as is humanly possible.

In the meantime, pay Vitriolica a visit …

I’m not sure what possessed me (maybe it was seeing ‘Cutting It’ on BBC Prime), but I decided to brave an English hairdressing salon for a change. Whenever I have found a decent hairdresser in Paris in the past, he/she emigrated shortly afterwards, so I found myself constantly testing new hairdressers with often distressing results. This despite having revised my French hairdressing vocabulary – although I suspect that my dictionary is guilty of misinformation. It led me to believe that ‘dégradé’ meant ‘layered’. In my opinion a better translation would be ’something suitably degrading’. The haircut inflicted on me prior to the birth of my daughter was so vile (think raccoon with mange) that I have edited myself out of her photo album/the first six months of her life.

The salon that my sister recommended in York seemed professional enough, but the prices quoted over the phone were worryingly inexpensive. I looked up their website, which featured lots of pictures of asymmetric fringes and spoke of branches in Thirsk, Scunthorpe, Ilkley, Brussels and Shanghai. Oddly this was not a source of comfort.

Thankfully the ordeal is now over and I don’t have any regrets. Yet. But I must say that a lot of things have changed since my last visit to a hairdressers in the UK.

First of all, I got one of those lovely head massages I have grown to expect in France and it made me groan out loud (hastily followed by a fake fit of coughing to cover up my embarrassment). Secondly, I accepted the offer of coffee, expecting a little espresso to revive me from my head massage torpor. When it arrived, it was a frothy latte in a tall glass with cinnamon sprinkles on top. If only the hairdresser had stopped snipping for just a second so I could drink it before it got cold. It was like having a haircut in Starbucks.

On a less positive note, the salon apparently opens seven days a week. Is this a good thing? A hairdresser complete with raging hangover on a Sunday morning is surely not the most cheerful/skillful of creatures? I don’t think I’d push my luck that far.

Mr Frog, if you are reading, can you check out this link and see if you object to my applying for the position mentioned therein? I quite fancy myself as Lady of the Château, provided it comes with a cellar full of claret and a butler. And someone to do the ironing. And washing up. And …

Apologies. Getting a bit carried away.

My favourite dress ever was a short, gauzy, off-white miss selfridge number with lots of sequins on the bodice which glowed under UV lighting. Not the most tasteful of outfits, I readily admit, but this was 1994. It was always worn with trainers as I have never mastered the black art of walking, let alone dancing for hours on end, in strappy sandals.

Sadly, since I moved to France this dress has had only one outing, accessorized with a wand.  To a fancy dress party. It has now been reluctantly consigned to the ‘dressing up clothes’ bag for the toddler to marvel at one day. In Paris, at least in the circles I move in, dressing down is de rigueur, and something of an art form. Sequins are scorned as cheap and tacky (with hindsight I tend to agree), and are not even acceptable on club wear. Exposing swathes of flesh is also seen as ‘unelegant’. (Teenagers of the UK take note: showing your goose pimpled midriff in December when you haven’t been sticking to government healthy eating guidelines is simply not attractive).

In my years as a Parisienne I have acquired a wardrobe of boring discreet, mostly black clothes which leave a little more to the imagination. The Frog prefers me to dress down and would love it if I consented to throw away my make up altogether. Male insecurity speaks: “you’ve pulled, so now let me drag you back to my cave and you need never attempt to make yourself attractive to the opposite sex again And none of that nonsense about how you are doing it for yourself, not for other men.”

Clearly I do not agree with this attitude, but as it happens the Frog needn’t worry. Since becoming a mother, my idea of putting an outfit together consists of finding the least crumpled clothes in the ironing pile and praying that they will match.

From the guardian weblog page today:

Petite Anglaise
Blog pick: A rather elegant new blog written by a woman who describes herself
as ‘a British thirtysomething in Paris’.