Let’s Windfall In Love

Posted on September 9, 2011 by emmacalin

The apple tree hangs pregnant with sweet fruit. Any moment it’s waters will break and I’ll be on the phone to Gilles to come home. The late rains and warm southern air have created a greenhouse climate this last month or so. The tree is a matter of some interest to nearly everyone. An aunt to the South has called to check on progress. She will actually travel up so that neither pip nor peel is wasted. She has several culinary plans. In recent years the French have rather taken to apple crumble and there is always the faithful old tart – but I don’t want to talk about myself all the time. But the point is – and I know I keep on about this – that the affairs of growth, soil and food are the concern of everyone. An unharvested tree is a matter of genuine emotional distress. Even fallers, bruised decayed or wormed are seen as sorrows as if they were lost souls. One of my neighbours will collect the most rotten and damaged fruit from the ground and fight to save some unblemished morsel. Quite often she will present a bag of moribund windfall survivors to me with the cheerful words “they are at their sweetest now – there is little time!” Quite so. I know how they must feel.

Let’s talk about love poetry. I saw a great love poem on the web the other day by the writer John Geddes. – obviously about someone he knew. Since that person was inaccessible to the reader, the poet relies on our experience as being at least similar in our own contexts. The great thing about Love Poetry is that most of us know the subject. Possibly more of love is known by its absence and by the experience of longing. My own guess is that many “Love Poems” are not written about love itself, but the intensity and vibrancy of the writing can only come from someone who is newly and desperately in love. If there was one thing I would beg poets to do it would be to write, write, write when such matters are upon them. The tender rage of lips un-kissed will soften with the kissing and harden with denial. Seize your moments and put it out there in print cos I love it! I guess I don’t have a favourite love poem but Elizabeth Barrett-Browning’s brand of cool fire takes some beating. In my innocent youth I became captivated by Oscar Wilde. His letters to his lover Bosie are beautiful. Take a look here.(By the way I think that a letter or a paragraph of prose can be a poem. You know it’s a poem when each word counts so much that no one counts the words). On my poetry page I’ve put up a poem of my own. It’s not a “love poem” but it’s about being in love on a wet London day and not being with my man. It was one of those days when I was alive to every feeling in the catalogue. Check out “For Gilles”.

A very important letter arrived from the Electricity Company. An official would call to do my reading today before noon. I waited in. A young guy in a baseball hat pointed some kind of ray gun at my house and walked on, jigging about to his iPod music. Was that it? Officials just ain’t what they used to be. Ever since Tony Blair went cool and took his tie off we’ve been slipping down the slope. I saw Sarko and Cameron on the TV in Paris. Their suits looked identical but the French president had a centre jacket vent and the Brit PM two side vents. I reckon it made his bum look bigger. I guess statesmen don’t have wardrobe guys.

Emma thinx: Love is an any gendered thing.

Baloney and trap

Posted on September 7, 2011 by emmacalin

So – why don’t I do some kinda shock jock analysis of everything that needs sorting out in the world? Well, fortunately I don’t need to because I heard on the UK news that all of the trouble during the recent loot-fest was caused by “The Feral Underclass.” Both the Minister of Justice and the Mayor of London have identified this group as the baddies. Dear oh dear – perhaps industry can get itself out of recession by manufacturing millions of traps baited with fashion trainers and iPods. The Mayor of St Savinien has a similar scheme to get rid of feral cats but without the iPods. But – there is a serious issue here and that sent me in search of statistics. Since I live in France I get to see the UK from afar and since I’m English I get to see France from some kinda tangent. If there’s one thing to get me craving some nice anecdotal evidence, it is the pursuit of statistical answers. The distribution of Wealth in France is less equal than in the UK according to the Financial Times. (The top 10% own 61% of the wealth as opposed to 56% in the UK). These figures are a little old but they show that there is no huge difference. Youth unemployment rates are higher in France than in the UK i.e. 20% against 23.4% (First quarter of 2011).

Now, there are innumerable papers and studies and if you really wanna learn up, I recommend Eurostat Home. So – where does that get a scholastically challenged middle aged romance writer? Simple – it gets me talking to the taxi lady, the mechanic who towed my car and the truck driver who delivered our building materials. All of these guys presented themselves as absolute gentlepersons who could just as well have been schoolteachers or lawyers. In a nutshell they were “educated”. The minimum wage in France is 1,365 Euros per month.($1918) and £1,085 ($1734) in the UK. Prices are higher in France so effectively there is little difference. We have class issues here in France too. So far no one has turned feral, although a few rugby players look a bit wild.

So, when I hear senior UK leaders describing tranches of the population as a “feral underclass” I really do wonder where we go from here.(Well, it has me staying in France!). We need to include everyone in the aims of our world, we need to define the nature of our societies, we need to think about the system of parallel communities that has grown up around the multi cultural experiment. And we need love enforcement. These days I kinda re-live the spirit of my childhood. All adults are looking out for all kids. The Jesuit quotation “Give me the child till it is seven and I will show you the man” has a lot of clout here. Now, I spent a good part of my life in those south London streets among the feral kids. I’ll tell you something about kids. THEY ARE KIDS and we’re all terrified of them very largely because an educated elite class has “expertised” the things we knew as wisdom and told us we were stupid, brutal and old fashioned. Their liberal dictatorship ordered us stand aside while they sorted out society. The intellectual overclass CRIMINALISED THE PRACTICE OF WISDOM. If you need a class enemy – that is where you start. The traps will catch the ferals.

Wow! I’m really becoming a right old cow.

Emma thinx: Wisdom – truth in unbranded trainers.

Light Fingers

Posted on September 6, 2011 by emmacalin

Basically I really do live in a rural idyll. Just now and then something shakes our small community to the core. One of my neighbours has an old Renault – so old that spares have to be cloned from cells scraped from an exhaust pipe found in Roman ruins. A few nights ago both of her front indicator lamps were stolen! Now, really this should not be surprising. In my old south London home they would have stolen the car, pinched the lights and set fire to it. However, here the act seems shocking. The reason for this is that when crime and selfish thuggery are “normal” in a society, it becomes a constant background noise – like elevator music or 24 hour rolling news.(Once upon a time there was a land without news). Here, such a crime is like a rock cast into a still lake or a clap of thunder from a blue sky. Last year someone stole a small solar lamp in the shape of a snail from my garden. Gilles says it must have been a robot hedgehog but that’s the kind of thing he says to distract me from deep distress. So, I’ve been thinking about this. Once a street has a discarded cigarette packet on the ground, others will throw down more and more and more. Once crime becomes that background hum more and more crime will add to the sound and we all become immune to it. When I came to St Savinien from London, the hum stopped, and I heard the silence. So, we know the answer. The crime to stop is the first one. You offer ruthless massive punishments for plastic snail and car light rustling. Even if it worked for a day, the citizens would have heard the silence probably for the first time and would demand it as their right. Actually IT IS THEIR RIGHT.

The enforcement of law and order in France is slightly more complicated than in the UK. Essentially there are 2 police forces – La Gendarmerie and La Police Nationale. Obviously there are overlaps and shared missions but broadly les Gendarmes look after rural France and La Police Nationale look after the cities and larger towns. Unlike the Brits, the French had a militarily trained police force as far back as 1337 and probably a while before that. As an institution they survived the Revolution since they were perceived as on the side of the people. In my own small contacts with them their officers have been immaculate and correct, if maybe a little stiff. They don’t seem to do the gum chewing, wise cracking, world weary, feet on the desk routine.

Somewhere in the boiler/utility room there is a spider. It sprang from a pile of washing. I slammed the door, wedged newspapers in the gaps and have retreated to my desk. If he wants any clean shirts he’ll have to deal with it properly. All he does is put them outside where they wait a few days, grow to double the size and come back in. If all fails I’m gonna send in a remote controlled hedgehog.

Emma thinx: If a problem is out of control: stand back. You may be the fuel.

When you gotta go

Posted on September 5, 2011 by emmacalin

Whilst weeding the garden, I noted the normal panic and probably terror of insects and ants as their worlds and empires among the roots crumbled and rearranged themselves. So, we slightly higher life forms should not be surprised by sudden change and the fall of certainties. So it has been in the world of books – a subject which I mentioned yesterday. However, the landscape of magazines and newspapers has always shifted. When I started out trying to get anything published I had read a book called “How to be a writer” which I had found in the local library. According to the author, you simply produced “Formula first person” stories to the correct length and sent them off to editors. The editors just sent them back, lost them or put them on a pile. The formula story was written in the first person (a female) who had arrived at a crossroads. Her mind then “flashed back” to how she had arrived at this point. Occasionally I managed to sell a story. Sadly, those story/love/romance magazines no longer have sufficient readership and most have closed. These days it is the celebrity mag that sells. The fact is that the antics and amours of celebs routinely trump any fiction that my imagination could create. What we now have is the formula love on/love off tale starring people who you actually know and have seen on TV. The reason I had been writing romance is because some of the publishers at the supermarket end of the business still accept manuscripts. I’ll leave it to the posh “sincere and artistic” writers to follow their calling with integrity.

So, that brings me on to Celebrity. In France we do have them but most of them are somewhere inside Gérard Depardieu.(American readers will know him from “Green Card”) Now, I love this guy. He’s a kinda Jolly Green Giant crossed with the honey monster. He’s also a brilliant actor and seems to be in every French film. Recently he came to international fame by urinating in an aeroplane.(I do not believe that he was filming a re-make of “Snakes On A Plane”). Seemingly he had asked to use the toilet and had been refused because the plane was about to take off. So, he did what any Frenchman would do. He stood, got out his manhood and anointed the floor. Some reports suggest that he was very considerately aiming for a bottle. This is an honoured French tradition that you are likely to witness at any moment in France. Polite males turn their backs on the closest spectators and enjoy their relief. Any aircraft taking money from French passengers should install at least a small area of soil or a corrugated iron partition to allow for cultural expression. We have to be ultra sensitive to all manner of special interest groups. A Frenchman with a full bladder is as special as you can get. I’m gonna create a church of the Open Fly in the Sky and sign up paying members. Once you’re a church they can’t touch you. Gérard – I’ll be your priestess.

A French lady has sued her husband for “lack of sex”. A judge has ruled that under section 215 of the legal code, partners have to provide this service. The guy had to pay out £8,500 Euros. Don’t think my man will be in court for a while!!!!

The trial of ex-president and Mayor of Paris Jacques Chirac has opened. Seemingly he has memory problems and cannot attend. All looks a bit political and spiteful to me. He was ultra French and I liked him just for that. Emma says – leave the old guy alone. If his opponents win they’ll look like muggers robbing an old gent regardless of the rights and wrongs.

Emma thinx: Never let the facts hide the truth.

Writes of Passage

Posted on September 4, 2011 by emmacalin

A calm Sunday with tea and hot baguette served in bed while church bells marked out a time beyond my own boundaries. How lucky I am. How wretched the lives of so many others. I have so much because so many have so little. Well, today I have been writing. Fellow writers will know that there are always 50 reasons not to write. The trouble with computers is that once you switch them on the world reaches a hand out of the screen and grabs your throat. Since I have been Kindlicated I have been on Twitter – or rather I should say that Gilles has been putting me on there because I keep pushing all the wrong keys. Today I saw that a guy called Bert Carson was following me. I clicked his link and got to his books. Now, this guy served in Vietnam, has been a priest and a car salesman. Now, the the last 2 jobs are probably fairly similar – but this guy writes like he was born with a pen in his hand and jumped out of helicopters into leech infested mud. Now, just think about that. My only contact with rice is when I cook a curry. So, e-publishing has finally swept away the gatekeepers of the “who is allowed to be a writer club”. He’s too old for any tree book publisher but finally we are allowed to read his stuff.

This kinda thing gives me real hope. However, be sure that the old elites still have wealth and control of other media. I listened to a book show on the BBC yesterday and a couple of old tree book writers, (You know- the kinda people who are introduced as Yvonne Yourleatherboots – the famous novelist and literary critic), talked about “my bookshop presence”.(Look – the only literary critics that matter now are YOU lot). These guys are in denial but soon enough the old gatekeepers will try and stage a counter-offensive. Outfits like Amazon will not control who uploads their stuff but they can control who gets seen, talked about and read not least by pricing policies. I’m reading Bert Carson’s “Fourth and Forever”. My review will go on Amazon. If you check out this guy just remember that this is a revolution. It will have to be defended and re-won probably several times. The French Revolution led to the dictatorship of Napoleon. But they got there in the end.

God – I’m getting to be an old battle-axe. Just checked in the mirror. No whiskers yet. And that brings me on to the subject of hairdressing. In central St Savinien there are 3 bakers, 2 butchers, 1 pharmacy, 1 bar and at least 6 hairdressers. This gives me a huge choice and I must make an enormous confession. I have never used any of them! For the past 15 years I have been loyal to the same hairdresser in the UK. Luckily business allows me to return to England every few months and I try frantically to get an appointment- even if it means a kitchen table special out of hours. Now, men have witnessed my child-births but not one has been allowed to see me in mid foil bleach spiked head red faced mode. In this transcendental phase the same hairdresser has learned of my loves, pregnancies, careers and romantic heroes. If a woman is not loyal to her coiffeuse then there is no hope. There is also the small matter of what she knows about me, even though I’m almost certain she’d never say a word….. The fact that there are so many hairdressers in a small town must mean something. I think that important government statistics should produce ratios of population to hairdressers. It’s the kinda media guff that gets that final news slot.

Big treat tonight. An English roast for my man. Chicken is so dear here but I bought one. An evening chicken for a morning hot baguette is a fair reward.

Emma thinx: That loser – what’s his story?

Belly flop

Posted on September 3, 2011 by emmacalin

Now, you will remember my great joy at getting my car back! OK – a moment of joy is a moment of joy. Once lived no one can take it away from you. I know this well from my school days when I was selected to swim the back-stroke race in the Gala. This was because I could not swim on my front and you did not have to dive in. When they fired the gun I pushed off from the side flailing my arms in an athletic fervour merely in order to stay afloat and I quite fancied the games teacher. Now, swimming on your back you cannot see and all the other swimmers are creating huge lung drowning bow waves. The municipal chlorine and diluted urine of the pool blinded me. Suddenly I hit the wall of the pool and looked along the line to see where I had finished. There was no-one. I wasn’t a non-athletic, bit freckly, gangly sports failure. I had won! I did a triumphal whoop in the way that sporty triumphant people do their victory whoops. Then I heard laughter. As the blinding chemicals cleared from my eyes I saw that I had turned right more or less at the start and hit the side wall. The back stroking heroes had stayed straight and reached the end of the pool. There were no lane marking thingies – I mean this was a state school in the grubby end of town. BUT – that moment of joy stays in my mind only slightly sullied by what was a very easy mistake to make. So – imagine my annoyance as my car failed with exactly the same fault that had put it in the hands of Le garagiste. Now, so far no names, no flinging of bitchy consumer mud. However, there is a garage near Royan in France that is on my bile radar. I am an optimist.

Gilles, (for new readers, my exclusive French lover) often chides me for blogging about drainage, cars, building work and cycling. He advises that Romantic novelists are supposed to be frilly and fem. Well, of course I am and that is why swimming galas, broken down cars and romantic passion merge into one great wet pulsing thrust in my mind. Recently one of our young ones fell in love. It was lovely except that she was a sly coquettish little vamp, always surrounded by a mountain of fire, dangling a bunch of the sweetest grapes that only the boldest hero would receive. The lad cooed at her like the pigeon on my chimney whilst on the horizon she spotted ever more heroes charging on with swords drawn, slashing at their rivals to claim the prize of her lust moistened bodice. Stupid little cow! I could have smacked her face. Now tell me that I’m not a sensitive romantic. In the end he spotted her defective gearbox module and his mind was returned to him. Not before time – and I didn’t say a word. Honest!

There’s mould on one of my jars of bramble jelly. Kids and neighbours braved prickles, stone walls and a cow with suspiciously big gonads to pick that fruit. Oh Universe – preserve us!

Emma thinx: Girls – whatever the game, his mother’s probably played it.

Oh Vincent.

Posted on September 1, 2011 by emmacalin

I had cooked too much couscous. Some neighbouring folk were chatting and kids were playing. The air was warm and the sky darkening to allow that visual harvest of stars which is such a joy away from the cities. Here in Charentes regular folk can see the show. In the UK few people live in the countryside and the urban poor are not encouraged to look up – except to the bosses. There was wine to finish from the curry night and we set about the endless task of re-arranging the affairs of men over an impromptu meal of “N’importe quoi pimenté”. In France you can always be sure of a conversation. In the first few moments Capitalism was defeated as were religions and communism. Soon enough we were in the furrows and the SOIL. If ever you find yourself somewhere deep in a French philosophical tangle – get out your spade and turn over some manure. It’s a show stopper. Once you tie your beliefs and actions to the power and thrust of the land you have raised your tricolore and you are marching in step. During the meal the name Pierre Rabhi emerged and I realised that I had never heard of him. He appears to have been and to be still influential in France in the “back to the soil” movement which more critically appears to me to be about getting back to simplicity. He has created the expression “une insurrection des consciences” (revolt of the conscience) against the unsustainable values of our hi-tech world. He’s an interesting guy. I can’t find any interviews etc in English but here is a link to him talking in French.

Everywhere you see those wretched signs proclaiming that “La Rentrée” is upon us. As always in the commercialised world it means that you’re supposed to be buying stuff. The UK equivalent is “Back to School”. All manner of sexy satchels and cutie calculators fill the shops. I just feel so sorry for the kids as the shades of the prison house start to darken their dreams. Even now as an adult the thought of the classroom and its cruelties evokes the dread of tyranny in the heart of the powerless. It’s like those advertisements for sausages where a grinning pig carries a steaming banger on a fork. Bon courage les enfants.

The above old French picture is in a similar vein.

Emma thinx: The naked furrow is already stitching the robe of Spring.

Romano and Guilietta

Posted on August 31, 2011 by emmacalin

My faithful old car is back. For the past week I have had a hire car – an Alfa Romeo. Dear oh dear – it was nippy, jerky and apparently fashionable. It seemed to have several extra gears and I’m not too good at counting. I’ve seen them advertised on the television with sexy actresses in glamorous poses. My dear old wallow hog kinda waltzes me along. Of course my UK plate immediately attracts the tailgaters and the drama swerve overtakers – but I’m sitting on the gutter side and if it gets rough I can just step out. It’s really odd, but I prefer my right hand drive because all my genes are modified with Bisto gravy and also from a passenger’s point of view I am told that my left profile is more attractive. Gilles thinks we ought to go native – but honestly – would you allow a steering wheel to hide the best side of your “look”. Of course not!

I really feel that I should comment on the poor lady in the hire car office in Saintes. When I went last week she had broken her glasses and just had the lenses. She had to type one handed whilst holding them like a lorgnette. She looked like a crime scene detective looking for fingerprints. This week she had taped up the glasses and was literally jumping and hopping on one leg – the other being strapped up. I enquired as to the cause and she stated plainly that a car had rolled over her leg.(Well, what a stupid question anyway). I was going to give her a clover good luck charm but she had to talk on the phone while she was dealing with me and she only had time to point and make abrupt commands. She needs some kinda charm – it’s a desperate case.

Ever since I have lived here I have wanted to see the Roman “Thermes” at Saintes. Well, I found them and they are impressive. As always very little is made of them – they are kinda presented with a shrug. There was a bin for dog mess but no information or guidance. In England there would have been National Trust storm troopers in tweed and brogues or old codgers in togas doing a reconstruction of Julius Caesar bathing his bits. If you come to this region – and please give yourself a treat and do come- take in the Roman heritage of Saintes. It’s an education. All this was done without smart phones, video games or MBA degrees. Or maybe they had that stuff and they took it back to the mother ship. Beam me up Scottius.

Emma thinx: Need a good luck charm? Be charming. Feel the luck!

Come brush me! Suck me!

Posted on August 30, 2011 by emmacalin

Surely this is the uninhibited open mouthed scream and proclamation of blooms. I know, I know – I’m a dotty old Doris rattling on about Nature and flowers. Today Gilles and I rode our tandem to St. Jean d’Angely. On the roadside close to the village of Ternant the verge was a mass of joyful bloom, alive with bees and butterflies. I took the photo in order to share them. I think there is a wild flower growing scheme in France but I have no details. Whatever is going on you see bands of wonder and ecstasy along roadsides and on disused land. In a previous blog I raised the issue of the how and why we discriminate between weeds and “plants”. In Charentes fig trees grow like weeds. If you buy a pack of four figs in a UK supermarket it’s like entering a cathedral of cuisine and crossing that huge accent/income demarcated gulf between the working and middle classes. (Four figs £2.99p ($5) at Waitrose). And that’s the price of weeds!

I was chatting to an English lady today. She has been here for a year and will probably stay for a further 6 months. The main issue, as always in this life is money. It is very difficult to obtain work here for anyone. If you don’t have a perfect command of the language you choices are much reduced. Another factor with language is that unless you quite quickly achieve a level of fluency to allow day to day chat without effort, a certain fatigue and sense of isolation creep in. In the past 2 weeks, 2 people have said this to me. Very probably all manner of folk have enjoyed holidays in France and dream of moving into the land of gourmet bread and sun. My advice – get to grips with the language and ask yourself if you have that desire and discipline. When you get home get a TNT decoder and a satellite dish and point it at ASTRA 1 (19.2 degrees East of South). Watch French TV all the time. The News is great because you probably know what the story is already. The presenters will speak good French. When they say a phrase – you say it. Don’t be shy! Check out Claire Chazal on the TF1 news at 8pm (7 pm in the UK). She helped to teach me French. She also writes romance novels. I must confess I’ve not checked her out but it’s on my list.(If you wanna watch foreign TV in the UK I recommend www.sateuropa.co.uk The guys there are very helpful and professional without ripping you off.

OK – so tonight we have Poulet Provençale. I have cut rosemary, chives and thyme from my herb garden. Once I had a micro skirt/ now I dig around in dirt. As you get older- scrap the skirt. Get down and dirty and give it some flavour!

Emma thinx: Sex isn’t everything in life, just its continuance and joy.