The Lady’s Not for Forgetting
Reply
Category Archives: France
The Grapes of Sloth
The sun came out and so did my lizard. For what seems like weeks there had been no sign of him/her. He lives either in the drainpipe or in the cracks of the stone wall. What I like about lizards is their apparent perfection. Dogs, cats, humans, foxes and most other things have some kinda limp, crooked ear, attention deficit or bad hair issues. Lizards are perfect as far as I can see. I only saw him because the neighbourhood Patio Posse came round to tell me about South facing walls and the NEED to plant south facing growing things. “OK – I’ll have one of those grape bushes.” I said – hoping that this obviously correctable mistake would appease them. “Vigne!” said the Chair. It was agreed. There will be a grape bush. Now the only reason I know anything about grape bushes is that a neighbour has one and big bunches are growing over onto my roof (Pinching some would be so much easier than growing them) I’m watching their progress..I don’t suppose I could make any wine with it do you? When I was a kid my dad used to go to the home-brew shop in Tooting and buy tins of grape juice. This was just about as his car welding/rabbit breeding phase came to an end. We had cupboards full of “Bordeaux” and “Burgundy” which he made on top of the fridge. He started listening to records like “Beethoven’s Greatest hits”. He assured us all that wine improved the mind. My mother was glad when he went back to beer. There is only so much improvement that a family can take.
Let me just for a moment return to the actual purpose of this blog- Romantic fiction. I’ve nothing against real life but where can you get a sexy romantic handsome intelligent, poetic, muscled super lover? OK – I know we all have one but it’s nice to have a slightly different one isn’t it? (Oh by the way – Gilles does not read the blog!). However, I’ve been doing market research. Well actually Rosina’s been doing it. “Could I do anything involving lesbian werewolves?” She asked on the phone. “What about supernatural bisexual sex therapists?” I retorted. “WOW – Emma – you just gotta do that – WOW, that’s ahead of the market honey!” Food for thought isn’t it. How about supernatural perfectly formed alien sex lizards?”
Talking of wolves – they’re back in France near the German border. Wolf huggers and shepherds are readying for battle. Sheep and little rouge riding hoods are somewhere in the middle. Now, could there be a supernatural angle? Am I the next Dan Brown? Something would be brown if a pack of ’em came at me!….Now how’s that for modern romance style!”
Emma thinx: Know nothing. Advice loves a vacuum.
The Perfumed Garden
I often wonder about punctuation – well should that have been a full stop just then? I think George Orwell decided to no longer use the semi colon, and the BBC have decided to split the infinitive – so there! I did both. But actually, that was not the kind of punctuation I was thinking about because punctuation is what happens in our lives. Just as I was going to bed last night a neighbour arrived with a huge bag of plums! Now this was a full stop. He is a lovely guy with quick cynical blue eyes and a drôle tristesse. “Zay are of course too soon.(big shrug) Zees is ow zee things are now(bigger shrug) – zee summair is in zee Spring and now we ave zee Automne.” In reality he speaks only French – but forgive my attempts to flavour up my blog for readers in Zee Engleesh. During the Royal wedding frenzy he was a marvel – “Oh yes – you must be so proud and so ‘appy…your prince is marrying a woman for queen and babies – oh yes – she is ow’ you say – common but she ‘as zee tough breeding fighting beer drinking football genes of zee anglo peeples- yes?” Yes indeed.
Then there are other punctuations. Beauty is a full stop. In my role as inspector of works at Chateau Calin I went out in the warm sun with a café cognac to view the progress on project patio (I know it’s hell but if I didn’t sacrifice myself someone else would have to stand in). Poor Gilles went off to Bordeaux today on a mission of world control – or grasping a crust if you prefer. I sat on a little bench which we inherited here and I call it Stonehenge. I’ll give you a picture tomorrow and gabble on about henges. So there they were – un-asked for and un-requited. I know – Roses are just breeding machines – sex objects – bee raped – defenceless – aged – humiliated and soiled like the rest of us – but a sudden full stop of rose perfume hit me plain in my gabbling gob. A FULL STOP of utter transcendent joy. While I was there a neighbour came by. She pulled the rose delicately to her face and closed her eyes. I watched her – she is not young, but she breathed in the youth of all time. “It is a kiss.” I said. “You are a poet.” She replied. My life is here – my final punctuated paragraphs will be here.
Emma x
Emma thinx: Put in a full stop of joy. It will shorten your sentence.
Sound Investment
Most days I hear sounds of other lives but today is Sunday. When I was a kid in the UK my mother was a bit concerned if we made a noise on the Lord’s day – not that she was religious. In St.Savinien folk work hard. Yesterday there was a sound of a generator making power for a guy rebuilding a nearby ruin. There was a radio, somebody singing, car horns doing that marriage cacophony so popular in France and of course the sound of voices talking. Today, even the dogs are silent. How do they do that? If you could develop Sunday France Canine Silence into a product you’d be on a winner. Gilles decided to make some progress with the patio and I went out to help. In the silence it seemed almost sinful to chisel at pavé knowing that the noise would probably travel to Bordeaux. In the end we gave up and watched the last stage of the Tour de France…..won of course by a BRIT. I didn’t say anything, or leap about or offer any magnanimous smugness. I might do later though.
Sunday being so special creates certain niche opportunities. Americans and Brits holidaying in France will know that shops still close for anything up to 3 hours in the middle of the day. However, the Intermarché at St. Savinien opens on Sunday morning. Now, South London Asdaholics and the like would just think this was normal. These great cathedrals of consumerism open 24 hours to keep the faithful junkies supplied. This in itself becomes addictive. It’s like having Wikipedia or a million Euros in the bank. If you need it – you can have it now. All around the region you see reassuring posters telling you that Intermarché is open on Sunday morning. Don’t worry citizens – YOU ARE CONNECTED. It is so popular that you have to fight for a trolley. Oh – the attached bakery is brill and les pains don’t go stale until the next day.
During the Tour de F, I heard a French commentator say that there were ten thousand camping cars in, on and around the Col du Galibier – a famous climb. As you travel South from the Channel ports you see several massive dealerships selling motorised caravans. You know, I’ve never been sure whether their popularity is because the French are paying homage to the Roma Gypsies or to snails. Probably both.
Emma thinx: A slug is just a homeless snail. Be kind.
If you enjoyed my post, why not subscribe and get it delivered automatically whenever I post by using the boxes to the right of this page
No Show
Is there anything sadder than a show with no audience. Blimey – I should know. On this occasion I don’t mean me. Last night I popped out to the Fin Bec restaurant on La Grenouillette. This was our first sortie and some of the reviews on-line had been a bit mixed. Well, there was an English family of four plus Gilles and I. The young lady asked if we had booked and I glanced around at about 50 empty tables. Why do they do that? We chose from the 24 Euro menu and may I say that everything was a delight. A young lady named Jessica served with a professional friendliness that was about right. Dear Lord I would hate to be a restaurant or theatre critic. Those guys have to be hyper nasty just to make their waspish remarks amusing – or not. By the way if you ever pass by the resort of Royan do avoid the Tiki Restaurant. It is a beach side tourist trap. We ate there last year when we went to a concert on the sand entitled “Un violon sur le sable”. The food was acceptable but the service was the rudest and most unprofessional that I have ever encountered anywhere in the world – and this is not hyperbole. AVOID!!!
I started talking about having no audience and as usual got completely distracted. On the way home we passed “Le Spectacle Equestre.” Essentially this is a travelling circus show featuring horses. The evening was grey and coldish (by Charente Maitime standards – see photo). The show is outdoors and ranks of seats were arranged. How many spectateurs? Well – none. Bon courage mes amis – we have all been there.
Poor Tommy Voeckler – no longer in the yellow jersey. He will always be a hero to me and I hear no fat ladies singing as yet.
Emma thinx: Your best is good enough. Don’t save the good in you for best.
If you like my blog you can get it automatically by subscribing on the right of this page. xx
I Believe in Mirabelles
They don’t like it you know – this whole patio thing. It’s not as if I’m setting up a fish and chip shop selling battered oysters and snail fritters. Mind you – if there are any entrepreneurs out there please feel free to have a go. “I suppose you will be leaving…uh…..places for zee plants?” commented a shrugging well wisher. No – it is the avoidance of plants AND WEEDS that je cherche. I do hope to have a vine up the South face of Chateau Calin – but I’m kinda in dread of the well wishing grape harvesters who doubtless will know that the soil is better on the south western slope. When I was in England for my tooth re-build I saw a virgin fertile field on the outskirts of Romsey which was being raped/ bulldozed for several thousand houses. Such an event here would lead to kidnapping of developers and the construction of guillotines. Here people respire, live and die. But the soil BREATHES and is immortal.
A wonderful neighbour has just arrived with a huge bucket full of mirabelles. I tasted some a few days ago for the first time. They are a variety of greengage/plum and are a kinda large cherry size. Gifts of fruit are a currency of affection and acceptance. I feel humbled and doubly ashamed of my Anglo patio. I’ll do a barbecue to make up for things. I mean, what can a romantic novelist do for people?
There’s problems at the beaches of La Palmyre. The naturists (nudists) are shivering. Finally they have given up and are wearing clothes. Now – whatever your religious beliefs, you must accept this as evidence of evolution.
OK – I’m sorry about this cycling stuff. BUT, Thomas Voeckler is still in the yellow jersey of the Tour de France. Today was an historic day in the history of La Grande Boucle. Andy Schleck attacked on a do or die mission. Tommy held on and gave everything he could and still leads by a fragile 15 seconds. He is a hero and a gentleman. I’m proud to be a kinda half Francaise. More candles burning for you tonight Tommy! On vous aime.
Emma thinx: Is a guide dog an aware wolf?
Wet Blanquette
Too late – what a horrible term it is. To me it conjures up all those official gate closings and back end of bus disappearings that surely punctuate everyone’s life. Here in Charente Maritime it means drought withered sunflowers too far gone to benefit from eventual rain. There is hope that the maize crop can still plump up and perhaps save an extra 10 percent of the expected loss. For certain the rain is not too late to send hordes of campers back home. Camp sites are reporting more departures than arrivals, ice creams and bikinis remain unsold. When I was a happy camper I used to think that rain was an essential part of the holiday. My kids have endless memories of pebble beach picnics wrapped in cagoules and penned in by windbreaks. Wasn’t it wonderful to gaze out on an angry grey sea as flurries of rain swirled in the storm. Then we would all return to our half destroyed tent, slip into damp bedding supported by deflated air-beds. Ahead of us lay a fabulous meal of Cornish pasties with instant mashed potato and a torch lit night of holding down the tent. Go home? Dear oh dear – no wonder we won at Trafalgar.
Poor Gilles took a few days off to construct my patio. Poor lad has to sit indoors watching the Tour de France. Genetically they are just not used to day after day of rain. A French guy who knows I’m English, called out to me this morning – “Hey – this is your weather!” as if I were some kind of meteorological witch. Good job I haven’t got a cat.
OK, I know I shouldn’t keep going on about the Tour de France. However, sport does provide us with so many metaphors and simply demonstrations of truths. Thomas Voeckler is still leading the race. I have just been downstairs to see why Gilles was apparently beside himself with excitement. Now, just to be in the Tour means you are in an elite of the elite. But if you think about all the genetic chances, the number of sperm, the chances of your progenitors meeting at all and the vagaries of the female cycle YOUR CHANCE of being born at all puts you in an elite of the nearly impossible. So, Thomas Voeckler put on the yellow jersey and became it and all that it means. All over the world so many disadvantaged and lost folk under achieve and we just accept it. What would they do in the yellow jersey – whatever race they were in?
Emma thinx: If you have the power- award a yellow jersey. You do have the power.
Ex Patio
What a day! Look – it’s not that I nag – I just want things to be better for all of us. So we have commenced project patio, that most English of traditions. To a Frenchman the soil is a living entity. To me it is weed bed that has to be controlled. At the side of the house there is an expanse of soil. Gilles can see lines of beans, peas and possibly a few chickens. What we actually see is weeds. Well, he is a busy man and I am saving him trouble in the long run. If you are an ex pat reader of this blog you may be planning similar projects. Many things are better to buy in the UK and many things are best bought in France. Certainly bring your paint from the UK. On the other hand budget kit wheel barrows for 23 Euros M.Bricolage could not be bettered anywhere. We are lucky in having a branch of VM Materiaux near to us at Saintes. I can thoroughly recommend these guys. On a couple of occasions I have been there when Gilles has not been available and exposed my complete lack of building site vocabulary – no not that sort of vocab’! I mean things like – sharp sand, ready mixed concrete and all in ballast and ornamental stone. However, on each occasion I have been treated with kind incomprehension and eventual success. Poor Gilles is no better since he does clever marketing and world manipulation for a living. Luckily half the town of St. Savinien is being dug up and I pocket a few samples of stuff that I see and take it along to show the sales guys at VM. I suspect that the mad Englishwoman on a bike with pockets full of sand and stones is something of comedy. They never let on. By the way the guy who brought all the stuff today was a real pro and a gent.
At least I have been able to help a little and see Gilles shirtless looking muscular and shovel wielding. One of the problems for Romance writers is that in reality business type billionaires are unlikely to have flawless six packs and pulsating pecs. They might work out in the gym whist watching Bloomberg money TV and flicking their little fingers to score another few million, but they’re unlikely to be like some tough kid who digs the roads and carries railway sleepers – not that I look at any of those sort of guys! Perish the thought.
I can’t help but follow the Tour De France. Tommy Voeckler is still in the yellow jersey. He fought and fought today. I’m gonna light a Buddhist candle for him. C’mon – you can do it – for France and for me.
Emma thinx: Try making foundations without sand. Stone your prejudices.
When the Saint Saviniens go Marching In
So, it’s Sunday night and the town of Saint Savinien is holding a musical soirée in the church. A gospel group led by Jo Ann Pickens came to sing. Now, I wondered about this. How would this go down in rural France with an ageing population of Catholics. Well, I need not have worried. At least twice the expected number of folks turned up and they rocked – Oh Lordy – even for a Buddhist Trotskyite – they rocked. I hope you have checked out the video clip. The quality isn’t that good but just feel the depth of real soul pleasure that’s going on. So, folks – we have solved war and strife. Just let people see and enjoy each other. How it is that rural France embraces Southern American gospel beats me. They sure don’t have it on the radio. Incidentally may I say what stars all the performers were. The three girls that opened the show were fantastic and the keyboard guy was spot on. Jo Ann Pickens spoke in immaculate French and she just filled the place up with her talent. It was simply a wonderful event.
All of the above leads me to consider three individuals – John Mayer, Cliff Richard and Johnny Hallyday. Now, I suspect that readers – depending where they are – will be asking Who? All of these guys have huge fan bases in their own countries but have never been heard of anywhere else. Now why is this? Clearly some music travels better than others. Johnny Hallyday is hard to describe. He is more French than garlic snails and more rocker than Meatloaf. Perhaps that is a recipe I should try. I think that the virtual generation of lost “book my face” souls won’t appreciate him but he still has a loyal following. If you understand Johnny Hallyday you understand something profound of France. Not even the French know what that something is. But it is profound. It is something of passion, excess, revolution and the soil. Check him out here.
I read the news today – Oh boy! Big trouble at St Rupert’s. The London Police Force has resigned and the Head Boy has recalled all the prefects from their jolly hols for a special meeting. Now, if you wanna know the real inside on the Met Police check out my Romance “Knockout.” I researched this book in bed with a true hot top Interpol cop. Now – how’s that for artistic sacrifice.
Gilles and I have been gardening. He is on a mission- hence my daily thinx.
Emma thinx: Trouble not. Nature will win.
The Whole Truth
Sometimes you have no choice. I stood for several minutes at the meat display at Carrefour.There they were- whole rabbits, gourmet rabbits and chopped up rabbits. The whole ones are – well – whole. They look at you with their soft eyes from naked earless heads. I know Gilles will love me if I do this for him. It will be an act of cultural respect, loyalty and prostration. I went for the chopped up (could be anything on legs) budget pack. It’s only a casserole isn’t it.
And now it rains. The forecast promises more rain but it has come too late for the sunflowers. They look to be about half their normal size. What joy they are, turning their ever hoping faces to the sun. They are the flowers that a child would design – like those suns that blaze in the right hand corners of all those fridge door paintings of “my house”. They are impossible gaudy badges of ecstasy even in their impoverished state. Vincent Van Gogh painted them in a transcendent frenzy, often squeezing yellow pigment straight from the tube in an attempt to capture their unequivocal moment of blazing passion. I think he got them for us don’t you.
Many folks will be planning to holiday in France. My little town of St Savinien is part of a big push to attract tourism. Enthusiasm for foreign travel has not reached President Sarkozy. He has advised members of his government to holiday in France. He has also advised them that they may relax but remain on duty. OK – you can be a tourist – as long as you stay at home.
Emma thinx: One seed is enough.
Emma Undercover 