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Soup or Poisson?

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                So, then- the French. Vive la difference!-as they say. It is traditional, and commonplace for us Brits to display animosity, dislike and general displeasure to them…as it is for them to be contemptuous, dismissive and generally out of sorts with us. This is how it has been since time immemorial; since tiny, posturing Bonaparte and noble, one-eyed Nelson, since Agincourt, since the German Nazis were allowed in to run riot all over the place.

                We think them arrogant, uncouth and sexually immoral. They think us cold, frigid and unappealing. They think their cuisine superior. We think they are up themselves. Does all this hold true? Or are these attitudes as outdated as a beret and a string of onions? Myself I think they are mostly far of the mark but that there are vestiges of truth in some of them.

                Take the arrogance thing. Those who visit France regularly are familiar with the fact that one should try to speak the language when communicating verbally, rather than shouting ever more loudly in one’s own lingo. This is perfectly reasonable, however there has been an odd occasion when my own [imperfect but adequate] French has been rejected. A couple of years ago we entered a bar for the purposes of a post-meal glass of wine. If there is one phrase I have become accomplished at it is ‘verre de vin rouge’. The young man taking the order made a clear point of refusing to understand, whilst sporting a practised sneer. On the other hand we are almost always welcomed, greeted, helped and smiled at.

                France is vast. The country is littered with plots of land for sale and crumbling, vacant dwellings calling out for some TLC. ‘Homes Under the Hammer’ could have a bonanza in France, but no one here cares, because there is no shortage of land. Being such a big country has also caused it to become very travel-friendly. The French, amongst all Europeans, are the greatest lovers of ‘camping cars’. They are everywhere. Towns and villages are happy to provide free ‘aires’ where you can park up for the night-all provided by local businesses, often with toilets, water and waste facilities-sometimes with electricity. There are hundreds of small, cheap, clean, comfortable, ‘chain’ type hotels-not luxurious, but fine for overnight stops.

                And they are rightly proud of their villages, too. They are neat and tidy, litter-free, and planted with wonderful floral displays. Despite this the streets and pavements are often encrusted with dog excrement, somewhat tarnishing the overall effect. They are completely besotted by their dogs, and nowhere else have I seen so many pooches being variously carried-in bags, bike baskets, cycle trailers or baby prams, as if they’ve somehow lost the use of their paws.

                Women’s sensibilities are not expected to be offended by the sight of men’s backs as they urinate, so lavatorial facilities tend to be shared.

                The boulangerie is heaven in a shop-and best avoided for anyone wishing to retain a waistline.

                Wine is cheap as water.

                There is much more…but the sun is shining, it actually feels warm, and I sense a bike ride coming on. A bientot!

En route …and more…

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                Postings may well be intermittent for the next few weeks. This is due to our attempt to make an escape from the continuing winter of the UK and undertake one of our frequent journeys south. At the moment we are somewhere in mid-France, a journey we have made too many times to count, having spent more weeks holidaying in France than anywhere else-either en route to somewhere or as a destination in itself.

                I can still remember the feverish excitement of my first foray into ‘abroad’ with my parents, when I was fourteen. Back then it seemed unutterably glamorous and thrilling to be driving on to a cross channel ferry, showing my passport, going through customs and entering the other world that was a foreign country. I seem to think we were boldly striking out to Switzerland, via France; staying in dark, olde worlde hotels in out-of-the-way places, attempting to communicate [I recall it was all down to me, the ‘expert’ after 2 whole years of learning French], trying to decode the menu, tentative tastes of the strange, unrecognisable fare we’d ordered. My father made the mistake of idly pressing a button, only to summon the elderly chambermaid up the stairs-an event that rendered us helpless with mirth and my father reduced to red faced embarrassment.

                We’ve made the trip too often now to sustain that kind of novelty. We are accustomed to the long drive to Dover via the M25, the grey, choppy traversal of the channel and the less than lovely entrance to the port of Dunkirk. Well aware of the canteen food, we take lunch with us. On arrival we know there will be a slow crawl out at ‘Gravelines’-the unlovely environs. Sometimes we go straight out via the coast, by way of Calais. This time we’ve come across to Lilles then down. Either way you have to travel across part of flat, French Flanders. Flanders has a language and a charm that is all its own, although it is only to be discovered by plunging into the bucolic, agricultural  hinterland, where the views are all reminiscent of a van Eyck or a Brueghel painting. This is a safe, sturdy landscape with fields of stocky, white cattle, solid, ploughed clods of mud studded with heaps of manure. There are clusters of houses surrounding squat churches and neat, industrious farms.

                Sometimes we stop to spend a night or two at a hamlet where a couple have built a campsite –and a reputation as gregarious and extrovert hosts. The land is flat for cycling, with quiet lanes or tracks by canals. There are peaceful roads from one village to the next and an occasional, small bar-open if you’re lucky. The area is overlooked by most people but in the summer it can be a gem of a place to escape to.

                But we are not staying this time. The weather is no different. We are heading south as far as necessary to get warm sun, or at least warm. Fingers crossed…

Keep up! A parable for the third age.

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                When I was in my early thirties and my youngest child was two I got a terrible shock. I was coming down the stairs one day and caught sight of a frumpy, fat, grey woman in a shapeless, elasticated-waist skirt I did not recognise. Who was it? It was me. For once I’d looked up into a mirror attached to the wall just where the stairs ended-the first look at myself full length for some time. I’d been preoccupied with matters of childcare-to the extent that I’d quite lost any sense of myself at all.

                Overall, that shock was a good thing. I was never a sporty type. I was born into a sedentary family. My parents invented the potato couch. My mother’s preferred activity was to sit in front of the TV and knit-preferably next to a box of Cadbury’s Milk Tray. My two brothers did not pursue any type of sport, or display any interest in sports activities. Aside from gardening, my father was alone among us in enjoying watching cricket. That was it.

                Despite this we were not fat children, and we played outside in all weathers as well as eating a somewhat conservative, but healthy diet.

                So having been jolted into undertaking an uncomfortable appraisal of my state, I took myself to an exercise class in a local church hall. This was the eighties; an era of leotards, tights and leg-warmers, an ensemble that most of my fellow exercisers had taken to with gusto and in a plethora of pastel colours [predominantly pink]. Swathed in a camouflage of baggy, jersey jogging pants [that had seen action as decorating and gardening gear] and shapeless tee shirt, I cringed somewhere near the back with little hope of blending in.

                But I loved it. I loved the cheesy music and the chance to almost dance, and I loved the way I felt afterwards, tired, aching and jubilant. I loved meeting my fellow aerobic-ers and being part of the shared ethic. Soon I progressed to a proper gym and even acquired some acceptable and appropriate clothing [not pink and not leg warmers]. Over time my shape became more conventional, but best of all I felt fit. I started running a bit-only half a mile at first, but slowly building up until I could do about 5 miles without too much discomfort.

                I probably reached a ‘peak’ of fitness [for me] at around 40-45. After that the joints began to complain, I slowed and had to start modifying what I did. I went to the GP with a condition called plantar fasciitis, which is an inflammation of the membranes under your feet. The doctor asked me why I couldn’t just go for a nice walk. It was a growing trend, he said, for the middle aged to present themselves with exercise-related injuries.

                Nowadays, being as fond of dance exercise as ever, I’ve taken to the ever popular Zumba, coupled with, as my doctor suggested, a good deal of walking [with a bit of cycling thrown in during nice weather]. During the day the gym is packed full of sprightly ladies [and a few gents] of more mature years all strutting their stuff. It is a wonderful and uplifting sight. I just wonder what my mother would make of it all if she were around and were to look up from her knitting and to see it!

Wandering around in the bagging area.

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                I gather that ‘Morrisons’ is losing out in the supermarket race because they have no online shopping capacity. I understand very well that bookshops, electrical stores, music stores and, to a certain extent, clothing outlets might lose out to internet shopping, but not supermarkets. Why? Because the supermarket is always busy. The car park is always full, the shop is always heaving with people and the checkouts always boast queues. At weekends, particularly people like to make a family outing of it. Mothers, fathers and children will be there, arguing, shouting, crying, threatening, larking about, getting irritated. Why? Why do entire families go? Why do they not divide the tasks of childcare and shopping and save everyone from supermarket purgatory?

On the other hand, supermarket delivery vans are constantly buzzing around the streets so presumably someone is clicking away in the virtual food aisles-but who?

                I can see the appeal of online grocery shopping, and have attempted it myself, in a former life as a proper working person. I registered, got my puny brain round the method, selected my items, selected my favoured delivery slot and paid. Bingo! I could come straight home and collapse into my usual heap without the added stress of hunting down a parking space, flogging up and down the aisles with a trolley, queuing to pay, unloading it all onto the conveyor belt, packing it all into bags, trundling it to the car, unloading, getting home, unloading again and then stowing it-[of course that still had to be done]. I felt smug. The van came at the appointed time, the bags were brought in and the driver left. Lovely. I delved into my shopping.

It had not been a success. This must have been someone else’s order, I thought, as it was not recognisable as our familiar, monotonous food purchases. Somehow I’d managed to buy five large bags of pears, four, miniscule, wafer-thin slices of salami, three potatoes and a number of items I’d never heard of and had no clue what to do with. There was wrapped, sliced, white, blotting paper bread-the type we consider an abomination-and a packet of sliced, processed cheese. The pre-packed meats were clearly the packets that had been rejected by real, not virtual shoppers since they contained tawdry, fat and gristle encrusted scraps. Who had ordered these things? I rushed to the computer to find the answer: It was me.

Having ascertained that my knowledge of weights, measures, food descriptions and names was inadequate for such a quest I returned to manual shopping. Nowadays I am at liberty to undertake this task at whatever time of day suits me. Although a casual inquiry at the shop as to which times of day are the quietest will elicit the reply, ‘2.00am’, I find that by avoiding early evenings and weekends the mission can be accomplished without too much stress and I can trundle up and down whilst making a simultaneous, covert study of my fellow shoppers and their habits.

Of course it can be tricky in these straightened times, working out whether twenty washing capsules for £6.25 is cheaper than BOGOF of own brand, or if 89p per pound is a better deal than 60p per packet in point something of a kilo, and one thing we are all sure of is that the price of everything is never going to come down, but I still prefer to get inspiration from the shelves, to poke about, to select or reject-[but not on bank holiday weekends!].

 

               

Is the art of conversation dead? Discuss!

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                No one can dispute that the way we communicate is changing. You don’t need to leave the house to know it. Our homes are full of screens of various types. Unless you live in the Amazon rainforest or a village in Papua New Guinea you will have access to some means of electronic communication-and even then I don’t doubt that whilst they are celebrating their hunting trips, dancing around a totem pole and performing gruesome initiation rites the younger members of these jungle communities will be texting or playing ‘Angry Birds’.

                Science and technology forecasters assure us that in the future almost everything will be a screen; smart fridges, washing machines…even our clothing. We’ll be able to shrug on our Mulberry raincoat, walk to the bus stop and text onto the pocket as we go, or talk to the collar…or just talk. We are already used to seeing people walking along gibbering animatedly. Once upon a time they’d have been thought to have been a little strange and you might have crossed the street to avoid them. Now though, they will be talking to someone else; imparting valuable gems of information such as ‘I’m in the supermarket’ or ‘I’m on the bus’.

                But what, in the midst of all this wonderful development, is happening to conversation? And what is happening to social interaction? Many [I suspect younger] folks consider screen based communication a boon. I do myself. I do the Facebook thing. I email. I text. I rarely chat on the telephone. There is one peculiarity, however that I exhibit that draws pitying looks or exclamations of amusement. I do own a smartphone, but I keep it turned off. Yes! I know how strange this is. What if someone texts me, or sends me an email, or posts something new on to Facebook? What will I do? Well the answer, reader is that I will see all these vital snippets of news or information later-when I switch the thing on [which I do, in an idle moment, about once each day].

                Am I alone in considering it antisocial to be staring at a screen in the company of others? It is an increasingly common sight-a group of individuals seated around a table at a pub or in a restaurant, all staring down at their phones. Why did they come out together? And what are they doing? Reading texts? Watching ‘Youtube’? To me this is like ignoring the person next to you at a dinner table to speak to someone at the other end. Are they playing games? Why?

                I’m predicting that within a couple of years whatever government is in will be hurrying in emergency initiatives to combat lack of speech in children, and dictating that the art of conversation be taught in schools-beginning, perhaps with teaching ‘eye-contact’ skills in Key Stage One.

                Or maybe it doesn’t matter if no one speaks to anyone else face to face in the future. Kay sera sera.

                

Relieved it’s over…but where was the comedy?

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                It is a poignant demonstration of advancing years to be able to remember ‘Liveaid’ in vivid detail. It happened in 1985. As far as I can tell it was the first of the big, blockbusting, heart-wrenching, celebrity-wridden charity-thons that have now become as much embedded in the fabric of our TV viewing as the weather forecast.

                Liveaid was a thrilling event for me at the time. Incarcerated as I was, with two tiny tots and no prospect of a night out, it was the closest I was likely to get to a rock, or pop concert or indeed any kind of live entertainment [with the exception of ‘Postman Pat’ on stage at our local provincial theatre]. It was an iconic, riveting, humdinger of a concert, gluing us all to our screens so that we were hardly able to leave the room to put the kettle on, let alone make dinner or put children to bed, lest we miss Freddy Mercury strutting and cavorting or U2 belting out ‘In the Name….’ or The Who [whose set was disrupted by a few technical hitches, I seem to remember].

                Nowadays charity fundraising events are part of the calendar, like Halloween or Mothers Day. Of course they are commendable, valuable exercises in drumming up cash for worthy causes, but am I alone in feeling fatigued by them? Yes, the likes of Lenny Henry, Dawn French etc have worked hard and no doubt selflessly every year to top previous the year’s total and are to be admired and thanked, and I am in no way criticising the ethic behind charity and the giving, but isn’t it time we approached national and world poverty in a different way?

                A cynic would say that the ‘slebs’ are not all wholly in it for altruistic reasons. I’m sure it does nothing to harm Claudia Winkelman’s career to be out there, yet again, ‘presenting’. [Why is she on almost every TV programme?]. But you have to wonder what the poor, sick people of Africa have done to deserve to be visited by the likes of ‘One Direction’. Isn’t their predicament desperate enough already? And these ‘slebs’ are not short of a bob or two themselves. They are asking recession-hit Brits to dig deep into almost empty pockets. Why not simply forget about the dodgy comedy and donate a big wodge themselves?

                Watching Jessie Jay have her head shaved, or Simon Cowell pretending to be a comedian does not provoke me into getting my cheque book out. What does affect me though, is to see and hear stories about struggling peoples’ lives. Back in 1985 it was Michael Burke’s tragic and moving account of the starvation and dying children in Ethiopia that brought tears to the eyes. Surely some sympathetic journalism, together with taxation and a consistent, philanthropic approach by governments in wealthier nations makes more sense than this tired circus that comes round with relentless regularity?

…or am I too much of a party pooper?

Any Openings?

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Life is arranged all wrong. You can blame God, if you’re so inclined [I’m not]. The first nine or ten years or so are alright. You get born. You are looked after [hopefully] while you are helpless. You might even be doted on. You may be fortunate enough to learn some useful stuff that will prepare you for adulthood, like walking, talking-even reading. Then it goes pear-shaped. Just when you are thirsting for knowledge, eager, full of enthusiasm, you lose it; snuffed out like a candle. Because as adolescence, teens and hormonal tempests begin to boil up, an interest in medieval history, Pythagoras theorem, netball practise, past participles and piano lessons flies totally out of the patio doors to be replaced by a fascination for one thing only.

         Unfortunately this is the time when you begin to be tested on your skills, ability and knowledge in order to prepare you for independence, the severance of the umbilical, the supporting of yourself. Striving to achieve academic goals becomes torture. Many of us [I include myself] acquire a disappointing, average, just-about-satisfactory set of results that equips us for some kind of career or job. Many of us don’t. A few manage to transcend their base instincts and shine-a source of pride for their parents [see previous post-‘It’s not that we’re not interested, but…’].

         You then embark upon whatever source of living your qualifications have led you to, because by now, in adulthood, you are on your own. Perhaps you will fall madly in love with your chosen occupation, perhaps not. Maybe you will find success beyond your wildest dreams; maybe you will rub along, earning enough of a crust.

         Other bits of life crowd in, like partners, children, housing, transport, holidays. These demands mean that swapping what you do for any other occupation becomes impossible.

         Then before you know it, the years you’ve spent earning enough to live have somehow vanished in a vaporous puff and you are free! Hooray! You are without obligations, dependents and if you are a little bit lucky, without too much financial pressure. You find you are interested in everything. You want to be a student of history, to learn about exotic places, find out how the universe was made. You want to run marathons, become a piano maestro or Australia’s next top model, win the Nobel prize, ‘The Apprentice’ and ‘Masterchef’ and get knighted.

         But wait; just as these lofty aspirations buzz into your excited, eager, animated little bonse the bell is called for ‘time’. The doors begin to close. Those violin, mandarin or judo lessons, that  symphony you were going to compose, the Michelin-starred restaurant you always meant to open-they should all have been started years ago…when you were young, when your mind was…elsewhere.

         But hang on-not all options are finished. What about becoming pope? There is clearly no age barrier there. There may be some slight opposition in terms of gender, of course [for me], but… nothing ventured…Oh, old Argy Frank has beaten me to it. There’s always next time. Perhaps there is a God, after all?

 

What well behaved Mummies must do-and not do…

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                When Mothers Day comes around it is always delightful to see or hear from one’s offspring, receive cards and display graceful acceptance of their dutiful appreciation. But other than this I tend to feel a little melancholy as the day arrives; because I have reached the advanced stage of becoming the oldest generation, the matriarch, if you like, and this means I have no older, female family members to choose a card or buy a bunch of flowers for.

                I also grow more aware, as my adult children grow older of the pitfalls I can easily fall into whilst attempting not to replicate the behaviour of my own parents as they aged. Whilst I have promised myself what and what not to do, I begin to realise that I may transgress without knowing it! Horrors! So in the interests of keeping to the regime of well behaved, uncontroversial, un-embarrassing mother I write this list of Dos and Don’ts for myself.

DO

Dress appropriately

Remember that song about the ‘Harper Valley PTA’?…[a number one hit for Jeannie C Riley in 1969] Well I suppose most people will be too young! Basically it was about a ‘mom’ who wore miniskirts to the school parents’ meetings. Whilst I am not yet ready, I feel, for elasticated waist, floral skirts and Bri-nylon ski pants I must be aware of the minefield of fashion faux pas that stretches ahead.

 

Undertake age-appropriate activities

One of the difficulties with this one is that I don’t actually know what activities are or are not age-appropriate. Should I be attending flower arranging classes, knitting things and playing Bridge? Or is it ok to take up motor-bike riding, learn electric guitar and go to raves?

 

 

Remember things

That thing about going upstairs for an item and returning with something totally different does not improve with age, rather it becomes worse. Being aware of memory loss does not address the problem. What was I saying?

                               

DON’T

Repeat Oneself

My own offspring are not slow to remind me of stories I’ve already told them, remarks and events they’ve heard before, which is, of course only too kind of them. I’m sure it is a most galling and irritating trait. I imagine, however that if I were to stray off into the realms of fantasy there would be much more cause for alarm.

My own offspring are not……..[oops!]

 

 

Like what they like

There is only one thing worse than your mum hating your music. That’s if she likes it. Apparently one should not claim to share one’s sprog’s taste in music, fashion, film or any other area of culture, or even, in fact know that these names exist, or ask about them. [Relates to number 2 of the ‘dos’].

 

 

Advise

This must be the worst behaviour any ageing parent can display. ‘You don’t wanna do it like that’- the most annoying words any adult offspring could have the misfortune to hear. I resolve to hold my tongue, that is if I can remember to do so.

 

Happy Mothers Day!

At some point in our lives as parents we cease to become god-like beings our babies look up to and want to emulate and become mildly comic and ridiculous caricatures of ourselves or annoying, cloying, drivelling old buffers.

How to avoid all this? I really don’t know.

Answers on a postcard…….[or in the comments box, please]

 

 

 

 

 

Book Heaven

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Today, Thursday 7th March, is World Book Day.

                Children, it seems are becoming less interested in reading books and less inclined to pick one up in their leisure time, according to a study last autumn, [http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/education-19511825].

                What a shock! Who would have thought it? And what has caused this ‘drop off’ of interest in books? Again, no surprises here. It is the rise and rise of screen based activities [or rather, non-activities, since sitting in front of one can hardly be described as active].

                Most people take for granted the fact that developing technology is, broadly speaking a good thing, and of course it is. It improves life in countless ways. But myself, I’d have to say that for young children it is something that they need exposure to in moderation. Computer games were in their infancy when my own children were young so I suppose I was fortunate not to have to face too much in the way of battles over restricting access, but if I were dealing with the situation now I would feel obliged to impose limits to playing on games consoles etc

                You could argue that it doesn’t matter, or that screen based games are beneficial. Late in my previous life as a proper working teacher there was one small boy who violently resisted all efforts to educate him and was both unable and unwilling to sit down and either read, write or listen to anything. His mum claimed that this behaviour was at odds with his manner at home, because he could sit for hours to concentrate on his Playstation games. Apparently, an ability to focus on shooting space aliens or achieving the next level in a car crash game denotes high order thinking. In order to address his fixation with computers we allowed him unbridled access to one in the classroom for writing tasks and so on. The result was not a success and he could generally be seen climbing around and under the worktop or disrupting others as before.

                And does it matter if they don’t read books? Well, no, as long as they read something. Because without the skill of reading life really does become very limited and difficult. There is a true story on the World Book Night website [[http://www.worldbooknight.org/books/2013] more of which in later posts] of an adult woman who’d never learned to read, and of the difficulties she faced in almost every area of her life. But I always told parents who complained that their child didn’t want to read a book that they could read a comic, a football magazine, a cereal packet or the Argos catalogue if they liked, as long as they read something.

                But aren’t we missing a trick? If our children are wanting to spend all their spare time in front of computer games then it is the games that should change, isn’t it? Surely it is not beyond the wit of manufacturers to incorporate text into them? There should be instructions, written dialogue, signs to identify, captions. I’m sure such games exist already, although probably not the popular ones, the ones they want to play. I’d make it compulsory to add text to computer games.

                To me, books, and in particular children’s books are simply wonderful, and will no doubt be the saving of bookshops, since there is no substitute whatsoever for sitting down to share a gorgeous, colourful, lift-the-flap, scratch and sniff, rhyming, pictorially stimulating, exciting or hilarious BOOK.

 

 

It’s not that we’re not interested, but…

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                The majority of people who are parents acknowledge that having children does, on the whole enhance their lives, despite the high cost in terms of finance, energy, time and so on. Most of those with older or adult children are proud of at least one of their offspring and those with babies and toddlers will be full of stories about how many teeth they’ve acquired, whether they sleep through the night or that they can name all the capital cities in Europe. This is all natural and in the order of things.

                Occasionally, though, there is, amongst one’s friends or acquaintances someone who is unable to converse on any subject at all without reference to their offspring.

                “Have you booked a holiday yet?” you ask them.

                “No, but our Susan [or Mabel or Esmeralda] is going to Ulan Bator. She’s been invited to join a missionary choir blah blah blah…….”

Or,

                “Car still going ok?”

                “Yes but we’re passing it on to Julian [or Wayne, or Freddy] because he’s just heard he’s got into Oxford [Slade/RADA/Cambridge etc] blah blah blah blah]”

                Worse still are the doting grandparents. Myself, I am not yet a grandparent. Yes, I am looking forward to becoming one, but may I be struck down if I turn into the type of drooling, fixated granny or granddad who is unable to utter a word about anything except the exceptional, talented, unearthly beings that are their grandchildren. We meet them on our travels, these people who are unable to complete one sentence without mentioning their grandsprogs.

                In my previous life as a proper working person I used to meet up occasionally with fellow colleagues for training etc. In the course of these monthly meetings there was one poor soul who greeted me regularly with the words,

                “Oh hello! Are you the lady who’s got a little grandson, like me?” to which I felt compelled to reply,

                “No, I’m afraid I’m the lady who has no grandchildren.”

                I wish I’d been more courageous. I wish I’d said I ate them for breakfast.

And another thing; those who are grandparents regard us grandchild-less couples with pity, as if we are in some way defective and disadvantaged. ‘Never mind’, they say, ‘It’ll happen’-as if we are somehow pining for this longed for event. Another of my friends feels she must shield me from photos or information about her grandchild, in case I should be offended by the sight or mention of him. This is not the case at all. I am at least as interested as she is in my stories, or indeed this blog!

For this is the point. I don’t mind at all, hearing a bit about others’ families, and of course I am as proud as any parent of my own children’s achievements. But I don’t wish to be defined, myself by their accomplishments; because they are theirs. What I would really like is to be defined by my own achievements…and most of all…in my writing. Is it too much to hope for?