Cometh the hour, cometh the spam.

Posted on September 20, 2011 by emmacalin

Yesterday the car came back. In the end no oily rag was brandished. Instead 1,600Euros worth of electronic modules were changed. This morning we have been loading up. Most importantly the tandem is coming back with us. Luckily we have a house sitter to look after the old place. I have been tempted to do a kinda wistful poetic wander around the town to fill my memory tanks. At the end of the day you can torment yourself with sentimental wishes and could have beens. You have to cut all that crap and get on with it. I have weeded my flower bed and tucked in the last tendrils of the vines. I often think about all the folk who get sent off to wars or lose their homes in disasters. Most of the stuff we whine about is pathetic isn’t it.

I keep catching all manner of gloom on the radio about double dip recession and stagnant economies. The answer it seems is more cut- backs coupled with more spending. Then if we re-structure our European and American economies to encourage domestic manufacturing we can sell our goods to the globalised dispossessed and poor who will no longer have jobs or money. Ah! but we could give them the money. LET THEM EAT CREDIT. Now, why didn’t I think of that? To be honest comrades I feel a real sense of alarm amongst our leaders. The shadow of mass unemployment and mobs with little to lose have them peeking out from behind their curtains and pinning medals on their guards. The winter sweeps across us now. I believe we could see a very interesting Spring. The credit rating gurus have increased the cost of Italian borrowing and once again the disembowelled shark jack-knifes in reflex to swallow its own guts. So far our leaders think that the answer to shark attack is to send for better sharks. The answer my lords is to drain the sea.

And so these are my thoughts as I set out on my next little life adventure. I am neither politician nor economist – I write soppy fiction in a kinda purple bubble bath in cold water style. My time in France has shown me the sincerity with which Europeans pursue the ideal of unity. The forming of a federalised American state was by no means certain – it could have gone several ways. Their page was less written. Cometh the hour cometh the man is very different to cometh the decades cometh the men. Leaders – the Romantic novelist battalions are watching you. The tired old stuff won’t do.

Emma thinx: Travel broadens the mind: and often your beam.

Blue Collar Scholar.

Posted on September 19, 2011 by emmacalin

Well, it had to happen. I’m on the way back to the UK at least until Christmas. Gilles has to work in London for a while. (That’s where I grabbed him in the first place). There is also the very distinct possibility that I will be getting a job. It’s about time! I had enough savings to keep myself propped up during the summer and more or less dedicated myself to writing….and maybe a bit of hedonistic pure idleness. Being able to write in tranquillity without all the jingle jangle has been wonderful. The fruits of these labours should surface over the next couple of months. In the mean time I hope to take the kind of job suited to a Romantic novelist, poet and philosopher. Yes, you’ve guessed it – I’m gonna be a bus driver. Well, not a really real one. My friend Geoffrey Phillips who did the narration on “Sub Prime” works for a school bus operator and there is vacancy for ME. You may wonder why I have a bus driver’s license? Well, I’ll leave that question hanging just to excite you. But all this proves exactly what I said yesterday. All those top jobs and inside information never come out to the masses. So, even a minimum wage, no contract, casual job gets sorted out under the radar because you know someone. I am a pluto-rat and a self seeker. I am ashamed. In the case of a bus driving job this is known as Depotism.

But, I’m putting my shoulders back and breathing that pure air of the proletariat. The British climate is often horrid. I am anticipating cold wet darkness. I will be one of my own people, sharing their struggle, mashing my potatoes into their gravy, voting on X factor, building the barricades, frying my fish fingers, preparing Findus savoury pancakes. The serious issue here is that once again I will be able to comment on the national politics. In France I have always kept quiet because it is not my country and not my place to opine. I have loved my home in Charente Maritime and soon enough I will be back. Maybe the next book will be mega and I can once again think of writing full time. For now I just have a couple of issues on which to concentrate. Remember to drive on the left. Recover my proper accent!

Emma thinx: One door closes. A trap door opens.

Mia Culpa

Posted on September 18, 2011 by emmacalin

As I write I am waiting for the 8 o’clock news on TF1 which will be read by my old unwitting French teacher Claire Chazal. The Nation awaits her interview with the ex IMF chief, Dominic Strauss-Kahn, now safely home from the dangers of New York. I actually wonder what kind of interview it will be since Claire is an old mate of Mrs DSK, the blue eyed ex news presenter who taught me French on channel 2. (Family photo above). Essentially, politics, celebrity, money and power cluster around one another in France just as they do everywhere else. The greats are often the offspring of the greats and the deals, the top jobs and the inside trades are fixed long before the crumbs are thrown to the masses. Of course we all live in a Meritocracy – it’s just that it is an hereditary meritocracy. As soon as I’ve seen the show I’m gonna get straight on here and give you the view from La Rue….

And here is the flavour. OK – he was weak and was morally at fault. He regrets all and his regret will last for ever. He has let down his family and the people of France. There was no violence or coercion and his accuser has told many lies. The judges have cleared him absolutely. When he was arrested he was afraid. He felt himself gripped in the jaws of a machine and humiliated. Maybe there was a plot? Maybe he fell into a trap? He does not know and cannot comment now. As for the accusations of a French lady novelist (NOT ME) that he attempted to have her it is all lies….Yes, he had power as IMF chief (one twitch of his pen could send thousands of you and I to the soup kitchens and the gutter), he never exercised power in the context of personal relations.

So – that’s the sexy bit. Then the guy came out of corner. He will not stand for president. (Oh no- because I just decided to give it a miss myself). Who will be the socialist alternative now?

Then it got serious so pin your ears back. If Europe and the USA do not get their acts together, in 25 years we will be an economic wasteland. Remember, before a young lady crossed his path in a New York hotel this guy was so mega that one word like that would have crashed the markets. He’s still got a brain (and a thingy) so we should listen. This guy is a so much a capitalist that his computer only has upper case.

So, that is the blog – bit dull because it’s not just about ME. Looks like I’m entering a period of challenge and opportunity after tomorrow…..it’s kinda like getting a job! Had to happen one day.

Emma thinx: No regrets? Don’t worry – there’s still time to catch up.

Shed No Tears.

Posted on September 17, 2011 by emmacalin

I’m sitting in my bedroom. If I were to move to my left I would have a view from the window. Only discipline keeps me looking at the pink wall. (Well – what other colour would it be?) All writers need somewhere to work. This simple fact comes to mind with the news that a public appeal has been launched to save Roald Dahl’s writing shed. Now, I guess his name will be familiar to you……but let me make a confession. Until I was about 25 I had never heard of him. As a child I read books completely at random. My parents did not read books and never read bed-time stories to us load of brats.(Can’t say that I blame them. They worked night and day to pay the rent.) Most of what we read in school was the Bible and I don’t think Roald wrote that in his shed. It was when my own kids were young that I became aware of his work – and that was because of the film “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” which was on TV at Christmas for about 20 years. Anyway – they want half a million pounds to organise the moving of the shed to a proper museum. Not sure how much I’ll be giving to be quite frank.

Thinking of books that I read as a kid reminded me of my own very very special appeal to the people of the world. The first book I read was “Missing from Home” by Geoffrey Trease. It was a very socialist book about posh kids accidentally coming across the poor. It was in a pile of books given to me by a very kind lady called Mrs Lovelock. Now my life story is of a poor kid accidentally coming across the rich. Perhaps I read the book backwards. I was a pretty dumb kid. However, I must say that this book planted those old commie seeds in my brain and now they are in there like those weeds that strangle everything in my herb garden. Well – all that oregano and basil sound a bit bourgeois to me. I would say that this book seriously changed my view of life. If anyone knows where there is a copy PLEASE PLEASE let me know. My treasured copy got kinda divorced and lost in the decree absolute of time.

This weekend marks “Les Journées Européennes Du Patrimoinie”. This means that palaces, monuments and chateaux will be open free of charge to the public. The idea is to give everyone a view of our heritage and also to involve them in the notion of its conservation and continuance. There are queues everywhere! There is no doubt that our leaders want to involve us all in the Eurodeal – that notion of the single state, doing away with the idea of war and the economic beggaring of your neighbour. If they do pull it off – to unite Europe fiscally and politically with an educated population fully employed with an equality of wealth and opportunity, it will be one of the greatest achievements of all time. I urge all the leaders of Europe who are reading this blog (and I know you do!) to be conscious of this. Over recent years a “place in history” has required war. Over these next few weeks my leaders – it will require the end to war or you will never be forgiven. If you can hold the show together and retain an agenda for people and not just for the so called markets, you will be THE GUYS. Can you even dream of failure? All the rest of us can do is press our faces into ugliness against the window you have shown us!

Emma thinx: History: Keep out! Work in progress.

French Letters

Posted on September 16, 2011 by emmacalin

Ooh – I’ve had a right good old write today….up to my eyes in steamy passion, requited lust, shoulders broader than Cheryl Cole’s accent and moistened lips poking out of all manner of ripped clothing. I’ve just had to take a cold shower to get myself in blog mode. Well – all this thrust and bust set me thinking about the true great lovers of all time, literature and my life long quest for culture of the highest forms. So, let’s start with my dear old mum and dad. Actually they hated each other – but at least you have to have passion for their level of hatred. I’ll never forget the day when my father decided to tell me the facts of love. “You know Emma – your mother is a wonderful woman and one day she’s gonna meet someone who will appreciate it. When I first met her I could have eaten her. Ever since then I’ve been wishing that I had…” It was at that moment that I was born as a romantic novelist and poet.

One day not long after I had met Gilles I was cycling near the Hampshire town of New Alresford where there is a fabulous old fashioned bookshop – all kinda creaky and smelling of old dusty books. I think also there is a hint of lavender, cat and old ladies wotsits. They have a foreign section where I have bought all manner of French Lit. (I mean – you don’t have to read it do you!) On this particular day I found “Lettres de Napoléon à Joséphine.” Now, Napoléon was some kinda Romantic Hero. After great battles he would pen her a few lines as thousands of dead and wounded were cleared away ready for the recorded highlights after the late news. Excited by my purchase I got myself to London and presented the book to Gilles and asked him to read it to me in bed. You know – for a French guy his accent’s not too bad. The early letters burn with passion and lust: “A thousand kisses await my love – but do not give any to me – they burn my blood.” Probably his most famous letter ordered her not to wash because he was on his way home. Look – these are guys who eat boudin, andouillette, oysters and a cheese called “Epoisses” which is so smelly that it is banned on French public transport. (Sadly all of the mentioned products are delicious). Seemingly Napoléon liked her Au Nature. Well – I don’t mind a bit of male musk myself (Ooh – I really think that an Emperor could have tweaked my knobs). So I lay there as my lover read the letters of Napoléon to Joséphine. “Ah – he had it bad you know”. After a while he skipped to the end of the book. I asked him to tell me how he ended the last letter. I quote: “They tell me you’ve got fat like a Normandy farmer’s wife”. Well, at least she might have had a bit of tasty cheese in her knickers for him! Bloody Emperors – it’s all self self self.

I hear Cheryl Cole is out in Afghanistan with the troops. Apparently she had to go on “Hostile Environment Training”. Now, how can anyone who has worked with Simon Cowell on X Factor need that? Give me the Taliban any day. At least they don’t pull their trousers up so high.

Emma thinks: Credit rating downgraded? Passion is never over- spent.

An Ode Here? Oh Dear.

Posted on September 15, 2011 by emmacalin

Do you recall the issue of the over-size ancestral wardrobes? Briefly, a friend sold a house but left several huge items of furniture in the house. At the time the new purchaser was happy to use them. Now he wants to sell up and the wardrobes must be relocated. Since the previous sale, the owners have fitted smaller windows, blocked doorways and reduced the size of corridors. Now, these items are not clip together flat pack chipboard. They probably contain more oak than all the ships at the battle of Trafalgar. When I previously blogged about this issue I had been asked if I would become the new guardian until a future time when someone in the friend’s family would have space to keep them and thus secure their continuance in genetic bondage to persons probably not yet born. Finally I had to admit that I really did not want them. It was one of those moments like when someone asks you if you like their poem/book. For a couple of weeks I avoided the issue but finally I have owned up. Suddenly I feel the weight of about 3 tons of oak lifted from my shoulders. The items still sit in the house in a kind of dark threatening sulk. Hopefully some relative will see sense and buy the house. It seems the most obvious solution to me.

All this brings me on to the matter of how you tell sweet kind well meaning people that you don’t want what they want or that you don’t like their poem.(I mean poems are quite hard to like. Most poets only like their own poems and they detest and despise all other poets). I once was a member of a poets group who used to meet and read out their latest meisterwerks. Now, of course I was brilliant and so were the others. However, there was one guy who was apparently a top academic. He also was poet in residence for a local football team. Every week his odes appeared in the programme. I’ll give you a taste.
The wind was rough
Our boys were tough,
The pitch was full of holes.
Our heroes carried on and got
Loads and loads of goals.

Now, you guys probably think I’m having a bit of a laugh but I swear that this was about the level of stuff. He used to assure me that this was just material for the masses and that his true talent was like a coiled secret orchid- too delicate to release among uncultured ruffians. I never felt that we gelled somehow.

So, having been utterly mocked and defeated as a poet I decided to become a business woman and run a poetry competition promoting my company.(This was pure nonsense but I think I got some kinda tax break on the prize money). I called it “The Prestigious Red Square Prize For Literature.” By the way, if you are doing any kind of promo there is nothing to stop you using words like prestigious, world renowned, sought after and internationally acclaimed. I asked for poems of up to 20 lines. Most of what I received was appalling. Some contestants took a 40 line poem and combined 2 lines in one. But the best was a guy who wrote about a fairy feast saying:
” And all around were little pixies
Eating up their soupy mixes”

Well, it’s bloody hard to get a rhyme sometimes. Gilles and I had tremendous fun judging the entries and in amongst them all was a wonderful poem by a true poet called Maggie Huscroft. I went on to buy her book “Smoke and Mirrors”. We never met but I have great respect for her work. As in all books of poems you end up with a few favourites. “NB – We Eat the Males” always gives me a smile.

Emma thinx: Poets corner? – Yes they can be house trained.

It’s Nuts.

Posted on September 14, 2011 by emmacalin

They are dying out. There used to be uncountable millions of them like sparrows. All those wildlife charities and noble United Nations type institutions should list them as endangered. You know who I mean of course……yes – it’s people who can actually fix practical things. I will not bore you with my “no car” woes but just let me say that the problem has been re-classified from technical to “possibly mechanical”. This diagnosis is on the basis that the plug-in computer analysis doesn’t know the answer. They have sent for a man who actually has a bag of spanners, an oily rag and dirty fingernails. I bet you he’s gonna be in his fifties! Now, this brings me on to my own dear sweet oily rag of a superhero – Gilles. Today he did some world controlling on his laptop and then decided to help out some kids with mending their bikes. He has all those sexy widgets that remove sprockets, line up hubs, remove crank tapers and tension spokes. He knows about ball bearings and head set adjustment nuts. What bothers me is that it’s only the old grey-beards who know this stuff. All these bikes, buses and batteries are stamped out in China and our whole economy is based on waste and consumption. But comrades – this cannot go on. We’re gonna have to make stuff ourselves, make it last and fix it up. We could just flip burgers for the new masters.

In France there is a great unexpressed fear for the changing world. Europe is in decline economically, having more or less committed suicide by following the short term benefits of globalisation. Morally it could be said that we have re-distributed our wealth through the organ of capitalism. That is true, but we have undistributed our own jobs and talents of our young folk. The French are far more conscious of this issue than the Brits. Now, I’m gonna be quite provocative here and talk about racism even though it is not really allowed. The French feel that the rising power of China and the fact that they are literally buying a lot of the world is a major threat to their lives and traditions. The rich don’t want to rock the money boat as yet because they’ve still got some, but the poor are not so bothered. If sovereign States go belly up in this completely artificial world financial system, will they be for sale? YES…..In France folk in the streets think of this and they have worked it out all for themselves. Our leaders have fiddled while Rome, Lisbon, Athens, Dublin and whoever next burns. I am a Romantic novelist, a collector of cliché, a purveyor of soft porn and a laureate of the licentious. And even I can work it out! Today, the credit rating guys have down-graded some major French banks. You know, if you slash the belly of a shark it turns and eats its own guts as they spill out. Keep cutting and slashing guys.. we’ll be OK.There’s a job flipping those burgers. Let’s fight each other for it.

The Autumn now wins the mornings and evenings but cannot hold the day. The buzz and passion of a Summer still smile and show a tempting leg. We are alive. There is always wine, harvest and joy. May it ever be. May we always be free.

Emma thinx: Who will make the coffin for the last carpenter?

Privates On Parade.

Posted on September 13, 2011 by emmacalin

I suppose Toulouse Lautrec started it all off. There is an idea that France (well, Paris) is the land of ooh la la with Curvy Chicks in Naughty Knicks. From my own sorties into Pigalle I wonder if any of the Ladies are French. Sexy France exists – but it does not exist in anything like the form that Sexy South London exists. Whenever I throw in some remark about “getting enough” or “I do like a big one” in true “Carry On film” tradition, French ladies look at each other uncomfortably, not knowing whether or not to acknowledge the “Double Entendre”. Well it was them who gave us the expression (You Yanks will get this stuff from Benny Hill. See his News Flash here). Of course, they do have sex, probably in very normal quantities but bedroom doors are very firmly closed. However,whilst I grew up in a society of women who would chat over tea, coffee,wine, beer, cider or vodka martini about issues of “personal tastes and behaviour”, I find Gallic ladies to be…..well – ladies. For a while I worked in a bakery making famous brand sliced loaves.(Let’s call it “Father’s Fancy”). The conduct and conversation of the young women was at first astonishing, became profoundly educational and finally deeply human. Maybe this happens in France. I’m clinging on trying to be a writer – but the bread factory beckons. Be sure, I’ll report back if I end up there.

I have a feeling that the French privacy laws probably affect some of the attitudes I have described. In the UK, a headline such as “Lady judge and tennis hunk swap balls in Court” are normal. No such thing happens here. Privacy is enshrined in the French constitution. Only since the European Convention On Human Rights was accepted by the UK government have pop stars, footballers et al taken to Law to ring-fence their lives. This is a tricky one. Much comment surrounds the DSK affair. (Head of IMF and New York hotel behaviour). Seemingly he’s always been known as a right old lover of the female form but all the press kept quiet. Now all my Romance writing career I’ve actually been looking for a role model distinguished world-controlling billionaire. So that’s what you’d end up with! No thanks – I’ll stick with fantasy if that’s the real show.

Emma thinx: Fallen woman – watch the rush to pick her up.

Buddy Can You Spare A Euro?

Posted on September 12, 2011 by emmacalin

I don’t know about you but I felt pretty wretched yesterday. Those awful events are printed on us like unfading tattoos. Gravity seemed pompous and levity seemed flippant and cold. Just to rejoice in life seemed selfish. I hope all Americans realise how deeply Europeans feel their sorrow. Here in France and I know from friends in the UK, yesterday was a very special sombre day. People spoke of little else and they did not speak much.

This morning the good old BBC re-started the world with the news that UK police had raided an illegal “travellers” caravan site and had discovered “slaves”. What this means is that all manner of the ugly, the girls too unattractive for sex, the mentally handicapped, the addicted and the mentally ill etc. had been held captive by greedy gangmasters and used as slave labour without pay. Now, to polite middle class British Society this matter appears to be astonishing. These days I can posture as a polite lady offering French cuisine tips, chatting about fruit jam, the entertainment at restaurants and chortling at my good fortune in life. You see – I’ve got a bit of money (AND DON’T KID YOURSELVES – THAT IS WHAT IT’S ALL ABOUT). It was not always thus. Once upon a time as a result of my own failings and lusts I ended up poor and somewhat dispossessed. I had to bear all manner of trouble. Compared to the suffering of many people’s lives it was nothing. I wrote a story titled “Sub Prime”. From the dozens of short stories I have churned out this is the only one I try to promote. The rest are trash market dictated product to be quite frank. All I can say about this story is that it is true and that these things go on. It’s free on Smashwords because I don’t want any money from it. It would be free on Amazon but they do not seem to allow us Indie Authors to price at zero. If the word “Gangmaster” is only something you’ve heard pronounced in a journalistic voice on the media then spend the entire sum of nothing and get an insight. I was lucky – I was a migrating bird touching down to re-fuel. There are many flightless birds.

Oh No – money takes the world to ground. Awful wailings and gnashings of imperfectly formed teeth in the French banking world. OK – you buy securities that aren’t secure at higher than their value and ghastly gimlet eyed bean counters poke at your balloons. Look – we all know the direction this is heading. Let’s hope that it doesn’t end up with guys in uniform bellowing simplicities into hungry ears. Now, why would anyone think that could happen?

Emma thinx: Justice: One man one second to act. All men for ever to judge.

For Whom The Belle Tolls

Posted on September 10, 2011 by emmacalin

Still no car. The problem is apparently “technical”. Now, there was me thinking that it was purely emotional. A very well dressed gentleman has shown me a black lump of plastic with some umbilical wires attached and explained that in the case of “electronic modules”, other experts have to be consulted. Gilles shrugs and thinks the old gal should go. Over my dead module! She’s a friend and a link to right hand drive going back to the first Roman chariot to scramble off the boat in 55 BC. “I came, I saw, I drove on the left”(Veni,vidi,veered) were the first words of Julius Caesar. Every school child in Britain knows that.

The possession of right hand drive in France leads me on to the vexed subject of Les Péages. These are toll paying motorways. They are fabulously smooth and straight runways of black asphalt. They are also tremendously expensive. The journey from my home to the port of Ouistreham costs about 35 Euros ($48). If you add in 70 Euros ($96) in fuel you can see why I don’t get back to the UK too much. The journey is never without comedy if I’m travelling alone. The French have set up all the toll machines for their own people. Now, how chauvinistic can you get? Usually I pull up and try to climb across the car either to grab the ticket or to make payment. My arms are rather short and even sitting in the passenger seat I struggle to reach the slot. I once heaved half my body out of the window, caught my coat collar on the end of the roof-rack bar and couldn’t get back in. On another occasion I tried to step out of the car, found myself too close to the machine and managed to twist my foot and sandal under the seat. Then I freed my foot, got it out of the car and my flip flop fell off onto the ground. I then couldn’t get the door open wide enough to reach it. I decided to reverse but an angry male had driven right up to my bumper. Quite a queue of impatient left hand drivers had built up by the time I just stretched my arm far enough to reach it. Now I’m getting older I tend to get out of the car and sprint round to the other side. This was after I got cramp in my thigh and had to perform auto massage lying across the front seats.

An excited neighbour has just told me that she is going to St Jean d’Angely this evening to an “Indian” restaurant. She asked me if I had ever been to one. I tried to explain that in the UK, chicken Tikka Masala is the National dish. English food is Indian/Chinese/Italian/American/Turkish et al or fish and chips cooked by any of them. Furthermore young warriors fuelled on beer, have to overcome plates of mouth blistering vindaloo as a late night rite of passage before they can become proper football hooligans. She asked me what I would order in an English pub. “Curry and French fries” I replied. In France they have French restaurants. It’s a whole different culture!

Emma thinx: Tomorrow will take care of itself unless you want the job.