Don’t turn a Drachma into a crisis

Posted on June 20, 2011 by emmacalin

How ironic that the movie “Mamma Mia” was set in Greece and featured that show stopper “Money, money, money….” Whilst politicos wring their hands and bankers predict ruin, many Français will simply tell you that this is the natural pattern of capitalism…….and that there will always be life, cuisine (they don’t do food), sex and Le Tour de France. My suspicion is that many paysans are completely indifferent to the fate of banks because their wealth is under the mattress or buried under the dung pile guarded by cockerels, chiens mechants and geese. They tend to be savers rather than spenders and have an instinctive suspicion of credit. It is criminal offence to bounce cheques. All the same, French banks are massively exposed to Euro zone sovereign debt. We live in interesting times and my feeling is that government bonds are poised to become the new sub-prime. Don’t throw away any of those old holiday Drachmas. If Michael Schumacher can come back……….. And do you know what ? There will always be life, cuisine, sex and Le Tour de France.

If ever you wanted to illustrate the deep cultural divide between the USA and the true cultural capital of the world you need look no further than my current reading material. Readers from yesterday will recall that I’m walking on the wild side of romance with a Harlequin Azur called “Pour une unique nuit d’amour”. My South London working girl translation would be “For just one night of love”. This book was originally released in America under the title “Pregnant with the billionaire’s baby”. Now, I don’t want to spoil the story but there’s this girl in possession of a womb. Then, there’s this billionaire in possession of a view from his penthouse. They come together. If I say any more the suspense will destroy you.
Readers will recall my spotting of the cute adorable ragondin on the banks of the Charenton. Look what I found in the fridge behind the pineau. I told you he’d go native!

Emma x
Read more on my website http://www.emmacalin.com

Doing it by the book

Posted on June 19, 2011 by emmacalin

I think I was about 25 when I first heard the word icon. I guess that before that time there were not so many of them. Since then icons and geniuses have been multiplying so that soon almost everyone and everything will be one or the other if not both. In football commentary, several geniuses play in iconic matches and venues several times a week. Well, as a Sunday treat I’m gonna talk about 2 icons. One is the Citroen Deux Chevaux (2CV) and the other is the publisher Mills and Boon. This pairing is obvious since they are both famous, successful, lightweight, cheap and are constructed to contain at least one cow and generally a prize bull. And above all – THEY ARE STILL HERE!

In Charentes, some of the oldest vehicles are still on the road – not as weekend hobbies but as up and running day to day transport. Several Deux Chevaux two cylinder pop-pop-pop up the road most days and I see many old Renault 4’s, Citroen Dyanes and even a Simca Aronde. Now, I know we romantic novelists would not be expected to be petrol heads, but I am in a kinda nostalgic fuzzy way. Jeremy Clarkson has done all he can to make me hate cars – but I think I just hate boorish juveniles. Now, don’t get me on politics!

I am reading “Pour une unique nuit d’amour” by Carole Mortimer(in translation). This is a Harlequin / Mills and Boon romance in which a female photographer loses control of her exposure and focus and winds up being at the pregnant end of a shoot. That’s as far as I’ve got and pour être honête I like it. Shoppers can take a walk into a world of international passion, glitz and romance for 3.85 Euros at the Intermarché, between the bin liners and the light bulbs. If you’re learning French get a couple of Harlequin collection Azur and tone up that vocabulary and your pelvic floor all at once . The writing is clear and avoids complex tenses and figures of speech. Find the book here.

Bon Dimanche. Emma x

Connection thymed out.

Posted on June 18, 2011 by emmacalin

Emotional and intellectual connection to the soil is far closer to the surface here in France. The term “Terroir” with regard to wine reflects a deep affection for the very life giving particles which mother the roots of the vines. It is almost like the cow in Hinduism – not sacred but looked up to as a giver of life. It is as if the soil has personality and this concept extends to stones and the shape of the land itself. Deep down I believe this is what the francophile Anglais detect here – a sense of connection and belonging to a past and also a future. This is not a dressed up arty farty middle class eco connection. (I had my own shameful phase of attacking folk with rainbow righteousness). It is a matter of fact, accepted and simply lived.

In my childhood the soil was known as dirt and represented an area where family males propped up Herbies for some mechanical repairs. However, these days I find myself afflicted with a condition known as “La main verte”, which the English call “green fingers.” Now, to me gardening is a completely counter-intuitive concept. When you are young you have time ahead to plant saplings and hope to see trees. Yet, it is only when you get old and cannot hope to achieve much that one starts to surf the green wave. Having pondered all this and the influence of subjective ideas, I have come to the view that one of the principal differences between social groups is the perception of time. Young folk with advantaged and happy lives with encouraging families see time as shorter and therefore academic success etc will seed a flowering life that is within grasp. Kids who are told they are crap and live miserable lives expecting to be kicked up the ass by superiors see time as long and any better future just too far away to be reached. Therefore as you age and a year seems like a month, it is never long to wait for Spring, even on the 1st of June.

Stiff Upper Lip

Posted on June 17, 2011 by emmacalin

So, home at last to more rain. I often wonder what other folk think about on aeroplanes. Flying above clouds I kinda feel that if the engines cut out maybe they would support the weight of the plane. Flying under the clouds or in clear sky I look around for places to land in emergency. Taking off I wonder if we would just slide backwards in the event of failure and landing I kinda feel that at least it would not be so far to fall from here and that even if we skidded off the runway the fire trucks and ambulances should be able to reach us. If you add to this the queueing for security checks without shoes or belts, being frisked by guards and paraded in front of gimlet eyed officials, the whole thing is appalling.

Glancing around me this morning as we bounced through a little celestial turbulence, all the exec types looked bored. Oh – how I would love for someone to start yelling and panicking. Once someone else had started I could join in without shame. Incidentally – Did you ever start applauding at the wrong place at a show, play or opera etc.? I did it once at an opera. Well, I didn’t think anyone could go on singing with a sword sticking out of their chest. I tried to keep going so that others would join in – but they didn’t.

My man was there to meet me. He’d cut some roses from the garden. He looked well and handsome – probably nourished on several rabbits. On the subject of beasts, I wandered into the bathroom when I got in and was terrified by a bloody moustachipede. These things are one of the joys of being further south…..but if you’re in the UK – they’re moving up.

Comic Belief

Posted on June 16, 2011 by emmacalin

So just as I raised the subject of Buddhism yesterday, an Australian TV presenter makes a joke about the Dali Lama and gains world fame. I think it’s a great joke and what I love about Ozzies is their lack of reverence. Check out the joke here.

Rain and more bloody rain. I had a good long write this morning and then joined Rosina on a trip to Wessex to see some printers. I ended up having a stroll around Dorchester, conscious that I was actually in Casterbridge, where the mayor sold his wife in the Thomas Hardy novel. Look – some snivelling little scribbler like me should not be allowed to speak of him. If you don’t read Hardy get on and do it.

As it happens I know this area. A few years ago before I moved to France I was part of a sort of an artists/writers commune just outside the village of Piddletrenthide. It was here that I met the poet Oscar Sparrow and became interested in Buddhism. Oscar spends a lot of time in Thailand and at one time was actually a monk. Check out his poem “Farang” which I’ve added to my website with his permission. My main memory of the commune was of leaking roofs, lentils and wind which entered our lives by either route and often both.

Tomorrow I go home to my lovely Gilles. I just could not leave Wessex without seeing again the famous Cerne Giant. I had seen this ancient chalk figure many times before I met Gilles but to me this is him walking up the hill past le château in the morning carrying my hot baguette.

Oh, I finished Fantasy Lover. The Greek love slave was released from his suffering. I kinda knew how he must have felt.

Emma x

Cream Tease

Posted on June 15, 2011 by emmacalin

Well, this is England. Yesterday June was busting out all over my bust and today I’m simply busted. A crow and I stare mournfully at each other as I look out onto Rosina’s soggy lawn. He cocks a watchful bluish eye at me. He knows my mortality. He’s sizing up my sinews – if not for him then for a future re-mix of his inescapable black feathered genes. I tell him we are Buddhists in the same cycle. He says that given the chance he will eat me. Well, that’s what I meant actually.
So, it rains and drizzles that gorgeous self indulgent mournfulness that is the secret sunny side to sadness. C’mon, don’t say you’ve never been there. For some scenes I have to try and get that feeling…a bit of Beethoven No 7 helps, but a sunny day just wipes it out. A sunny day is for kisses – God yes, kisses kisses kisses. I read so many Romances without sexy kisses. That is because too many of us live without sexy kissy LOVE. Plain hardcore is for crows and they are planning to eat you.

So, having done some more audio and helped to script a video trailer, we deserved a treat. We drove to the old picturesque town of Stockbridge. To be frank it’s a bit crushed by traffic and people so posh that even their jodhpurs and Lyahndrovahs have accents. My accent is a bit Pekham/Pigalle n’est-ce pas? Innit. All the same the town is cut glass Anglais and Rosina decided to take tea at one of the genteel tea rooms. Apparently it used to be a filling station.

A sweet child begged if I would indulge her with my order. I ordered a pot of tea and some fruit cake.
“I will have to pose the question as to whether we may serve the fruit cake – I believe it to be reserved for another client.”
“I only want a small tranche.” I replied in mid Channel posh – (aren’t you impressed with my slickesse) voice.
The child returned. The fruit cake was not allowed. It was RESERVED.
I took tea and an almond slice. In gay abandoned nonchalance I sugared my tea from the bowl of posh white crystals on the table. Well, we all need salt in our diet don’t we?

Comes in bowls

Posted on June 14, 2011 by emmacalin

OK – I’ve been writing today and I’ve been allowed to record some audio poems. Once free, I emerged into the stunning gentle beauty of the Test Valley. If you’ve not been here, put it on your priority list with Venice, Paris and Charentes. Yes – it is a gentle beauty, self confident, thatched and patched with fields of green and gold, called by crows, bumble hummed with bees, lifted by larks, softened by silence. This evening a team play cricket on a village green, an impossible profusion of roses slam dunk cottage doors with exclamation marks of belligerent tenderness. These hammer blows of beauty kiss as I imagine an angel would kiss a lamb. OK that’s double purple flame grilled whopper OTT – but that’s want I want to say to you about the power of this loveliness. Rejoice in this life. Kiss your lover as if their lips were love itself. Don’t let me be the only sad romantic, tearful as an iris blooms and a duck planes in to land on mirrored water.

Cricket – I had to mention it. My first memories of cricket were as a girl when my father and brothers listened to it on the radio. It was always the same commentary “Higginbottom, polishes the ball on his testicles, comes in from the gas works end, bowls around the wicket to Homerton-Smythe who bat and pads it away to silly mid off. A ripple of applause stirs pigeons on the boundary as the scoreboard records another maiden had over.”

Never can I serve soup or dessert without saying “comes in – bowls.” Oh dear, I’m getting a bit dotty and potty. I need my man!!!!

The Drama Queen’s Speech

Posted on June 13, 2011 by emmacalin

OK. just between you and I – and I mean that – I was wrong. I know this is a rare situation but, yes, I was wrong. Today was the audio day. I presented myself at Rosina’s office (It’s a kinda pre-fab in her garden. I was to read a masterpiece for publication. I felt humbled even though I wrote it myself. For hours I toiled amongst sound deadening egg boxes. I emerged into a sea of troubled faces. Well, Rosina and her partner Bob who twiddles knobs.

“We – I don’t think your voice…..” He began.
“What?” I screamed – “I’m the bloody genius who wrote it!!!!”
Rosina and Bob laboured away trying to assure me that I was a genius but with the voice of a moron. Look – you just cannot accept personal and professional re-assurance from a bloke called Bob. Rosina de Montfort…….um…..well, at least it has gravitas, a sense of history and sounds as if she could cook a tagine of lamb.

So, like I said – I did the only thing a passionate romantic novelist could do. I went off on one.I took a bike from the garage and rode about 5 miles to Danebury hill fort. Here I offered my spirit to the pagan gods on the altar of my own ego. Well, until I began to feel a bit silly. These ramparts were built in olden times to protect the natives from rival tribes and invading hordes. Walk calmly and reflect and you can imagine their fear and longing for safety. I could smell the burning fat of their rush lamps, the cycle and acceptance of their life. A few years ago I wrote a poem about a hill fort and you can find it on here on: my poems page

Then I rode back. You guys are the first to know of my suffering.

Everything has its place.

Posted on June 12, 2011 by emmacalin

Rain. Sweet Rain that filters through the chalk downland to refresh the river Test and its tributaries. Rain also in France but all the same Gilles phoned to say he’s going out on his bike with les garcons. Now, where do you stand on the whole Lycra/lunch box issue? Should skin tight sports clothing be like booze, fags and solvents with an age limit where no one over the age of say 50 should be allowed to buy it? There is also the issue of speedo swimwear. Last year Gilles was banned from the local piscine for wearing swim shorts. An obliging attendant was on hand to sell him some budgie smugglers. In the UK you get banned for wearing speedos cos apparently one looks like a dirty old man.(Well the men do I guess). Personally I hate the whole screaming in chlorine flavoured urine experience and never go.

On the subject of bikes I’ve noticed a new trend here in the UK. In France old guys ride about on 30 year old Peugeot racers. Here you see mobs of exec types with i pods and smart phones riding bikes with bleeping sat naffs. One of those pelican things swept through the village yesterday evening. The bikes wouldn’t disgrace those carbon fibre exotica of the Steroid-EPO team. Watch out for this team in the Tour de France- they’re almost certain winners. And where are the girls? I just hope they’re warm and dry with a good Romance to read. “Zak unclipped from his pedals and stepped away from his Fandango carbon XR47 special edition and leant it against the wall. As he turned towards the street in his turquoise Lycra shorts, Immelda’s legs buckled and she sank to her knees.”

Rosina was up early tapping out some blurb for a book about electric trains. She did bring me a cup of tea and enquire if I would be working on my book with a kinda tweaky eyebrow high flyer human dynamo expression on her face. These Anglo Saxons are just so angled.

Genda benda agenda

Posted on June 11, 2011 by emmacalin

Wow! here I am in the beautiful Test Valley. My wonderful friend and literary agent Rosina picked me up from Southampton airport and I find myself in the green green grass of Hampshire. They say there’s a drought here – but believe me, they know nothing. Gilles dashed me to the airport for 12.30. Lunch was a Flybe sandwich. No time for baguette this morning and no writing done! Ah well – it’s a day off. Her cottage (she says its haunted), is close to the country town of Romsey and the gorgeous gardens of Mottisfont Abbey and House. I might just give you a little hint that my latest novel could involve unsuitable and forbidden love in an English period house.

It was at Mottisfont house a few years ago that I chanced to find a real treasure of a book in a second hand sale. The book is called “Indian Love” by Laurence Hope. I had never heard of her before. She had to pretend to be a man and also pretend that her poems were translations of Indian love songs since they were so passionate,(perhaps slightly sexually ambiguous ladies) and therefore quite unsuitable for a respectable gal. Won’t drone on about her cos you can look her up on Wiki and her poetry speaks for itself.If she needs any other endorsement let me say that Thomas Hardy was a fan. She took her own life soon after the death of her husband in 1904.

I’m missing my lovely man….he’ll have a sweet little bunny rabbit in the pot by now. I just know her will!