Planted Evidence

Posted on August 8, 2011 by emmacalin

Regular readers will probably have gathered that I’m some kind of soft liberal pinko pacifist. Well, that’s the way I like to think of myself anyway. However, hidden in every pinkofist is a raving authoritarian fascist. News of rioting and looting by mobs of thugs in London both saddens and outrages me. I am a South London girl. If anyone in my family had ever had a silver spoon it would not have been shoved in their gob. Seemingly people have been in looted shoe shops trying out the sizes and styles. Now, if this doesn’t show that the British are a higher class of thug I don’t know what does. Whole families are turning up at stores with trollies and wheeling away televisions and washing machines. Police are being attacked with petrol bombs and angsting community leaders are already on the radio telling us the cause of the problem. YES!!!! It’s all the fault of the POLICE. Well, I never doubted it for one minute. Of course the police are to blame. They didn’t arrest all the terrorists before they blew up London. They didn’t arrest all the journalists who were hacking phones. They were not sufficiently sensitive to the community before they tried to sort out gun crime/mugging/drugs/burglary and deception by politicians. Just ban the bloody police and we can all live in lentil land, loving all our gun toting drug dealing neighbours. Bref – London police have a tough job. I lived in Brixton (South London) when it was just an all day, every day septic crime scene. A friend was punched in the face by a robber while she was holding her baby. He got her gold necklace and sneered. No Buddhist lentils on the boil today. Just me.

In St. Savinien, there is calm. Since La terrace nears completion I set out to obtain the finishing touches…..that is to say, plants. Tomorrow I will call a meeting of le tribunal de terasse and reveal my policy of green appeasement. I know they have been muttering about my wall to wall pavé. I’ve put on a photo of my green cred. Do you think it’ll be enough?

Now a word to all you would be builders and DIY optimists. In France they have a kind of sand called “sable de Remblai”. Some people call it rabbit sand and it is sold for putting the levelling layer under paving and cobbles. If you think you need say – 10 cubic metres, buy at least 20. I once tried reading Stephen Hawking’s book ” A Brief History Of Time”. Well, being a fellow genius it was easy to follow until I got to the issue of everything being compressed into a “singularity” whereby there was nothing from which came ALL. Now, of course I fully accepted all of the intellectual aspects of his mathematics – but it was only when I encountered rabbit sand that the subject really spoke to me. Much can truly compress into nowt!

Emma thinx: Singularity – what is the point of it?

Do You Smoke After Entrée Course?

Posted on August 7, 2011 by emmacalin

The French smoke. The most accepted figure appears to be that 38% smoke compared to about 24% in the UK. On Saturday night I was at the Resto St. Savinien for their latin/salsa/paella dinner. The musicians were tres special but disappointingly didn’t do CDs or i-tune links. They are trying to catch up and catch on – they really are. Somehow here, the applause and bonhomie of the folks at tables is enough. A day is a day. It is lived, and the butt end trodden into the cracks of the cobbles. The other thing at the table was – well – smoke. We were seated on la terrasse, but covered by a gazebo. A lovely waitress asked if we minded if a few other clients smoked. To be frank, I cared not. The ambience of something not quite right with the drains, strong coffee and the throat catch of French fag is (for me) La France. That smoky Serge Gainsbourg voice somehow is Romance.(Check him out here) Gilles – being French and a muscular cyclist/patio layer was less keen. I patted his tough old thigh and he let me breathe in my pavement café, Sorbonne and early tragic death of poet fantasy. Just so long as I don’t live it out OK! I’m not a bloody artist after all.

What a lovely word FECUNDITY is. We don’t use it enough. Try working it in to your daily vocab. It sprung to mind today as I immersed myself in domestique subservience and abasement by making jam for my man. Who knows what the feminoids would do to me if they invaded. Nature has studded budded and spudded. The ripe bursting fruits are picked and the cycle of abundance pauses on the fulcrum between fullness and decay. Well, bref – forget the poetry and just say jam. A while later will come the pickles. In French supermarkets there are big displays of jam making sugar. I gave my man some confiture de mirabelles to try. His pleasure was like having a best seller – well, maybe not quite that….but it’ll do while I’m waiting.

A train track runs across the bottom of the road. I’m sure that there are regulations about the sounding of hooters as you approach the crossing. I think all the old guys kinda shrug and just plough on in silence. The newbie blasts his klaxon at each town crossing.OK – we all know you now…we won’t cross in front of you we promise. Just SHUT UP!

Emma thinx: Make jam. Preserve the future.

Step This Way

Posted on August 4, 2011 by emmacalin

“I love the light from the East.” Explained a friend, showing me her East facing window. She is quite right. The dawn light has a pink texture and ambience which softens whites towards cream and deepens yellow towards orange. I wish I were an artist who could express this. You’ll just have to come and see it for yourselves. The pursuit of light by artists has led many a soul to this region and of course to France in general. The impressionists and pointillists captured for ever the light of their moments. And still they come. Yesterday I met some wonderful lady artists who had settled in St.Savinien. Naively I asked if they had sold many paintings. “Oh no – of course not, the French do not buy original art. They love photos and prints but we sell all our stuff in the UK.” This did not really surprise me. I sell “Knockout!” mainly in the USA. It’s about a Scotland Yard femtective and a French horn. Une femme never makes a profit in her own country. Folk want something from somewhere else. There are few Canaletto paintings in Venice. Now I should not have said that word. It is like the word Paris. Either concept fills me with longing to go there at least once more. I have had so much in life and still I want more and more. How I remember the Grand Canal and the conductors on the water-bus calling out the names of the stops in melancholy Italiano ….”Salute – Salute” (Sal ooo tay). The batobus in Paris where they call out “Notre Dame.” Excuse me but I was having a spasm. In “Knockout!” Freddie and Anna travel and kiss under each bridge on the Seine in Paris. It took me days to calm down!

In the UK there is a type of semi-business person who is a property developer. You know the kind of thing – buy an old house, tart it up, sell it on and do it all again. In France there is a type of long term property developer who buys a ruin, ruins it a bit more, extends the ruin to a far bigger area and sells it on as an even bigger project. It may be harsh, but my description of this business model is that of being a properly developer. Some brave innocent buys the ruin and then has to do it properly. The psychology is this….If it’s a ruin then it must be cheap yah? If you are buying out here don’t be seduced by the “potential”. The price may be set to match your dream. The seller is just as likely to be British.

Now, the naked plug! In St Savinien, Charente, 17350, we have a Maire. He is like the town prophet, clerk of works and manager. This guy has ambition and vision. He is passionate about keeping his town alive and that means Tourisme. Today’s picture is of some of the travaux. This is the most beautiful unknown Ville de France. In the UK there are towns like St Ives or Clovelly which attract millions of visitors. We have alleys and tiny higgeldy piggeldy pathways through romanesque clay tiled cottages. Bring your camera and pickle yourself a winter feast of sun filled ecstasy.

Emma thinx: Despair is merely a starting point. Sell the dream not the ruin.

Etiquette to ride

Posted on August 2, 2011 by emmacalin

Of course- it is the holidays at last and it is pouring with rain. Gilles and I went to Saintes to see le monument historique of the Carrefour hypermarché. One day these places will need guided tours and tourists will send by mind mails to their 10,000 friends on brain book by just swivelling their eyes. Remember where you heard it first. However, no shortage of tourists today. I reckon about a quarter of the shoppage was being done by peeved Brits. I spot them and then saunter up to check see if my detectors are correct. I loiter like a dispossessed store detective to catch a snatch of their conversation. I’m rarely wrong. I always wondered how waiters in Paris restaurants knew you were a Brit before you spoke. I still don’t know but it’s something to do with a kinda pressed clothing and over casual formality. The French are casually formal since they are shrugging people living out a book of etiquette. The Brits are formally casual since they are stiff people living without etiquette. You may need to read this twice – but it is true. Today in Carrefour we spotted 2 guys who live quite nearby. In the UK we might have waved or just given a nod. To a Frenchman this is impossible. They came over to us at the check-out since we were in mid conveyor panic mode and could not meet half way. People waited behind us while kissings and hand shakings were carried out. An exchange of news between Gilles and the lads had me glancing at the till operator and the waiting queue. In Peckham or Bermondsey (proletarian parts of London) there would have been uneasy shuffling and even some verbals. Everyone shrugged. Some things are necessary and have to be done. It is expected.

The same situation applies to French car driving. It is anarchic and pushy. All other drivers are fools who have to be defeated. Simply, driving of cars came after the main social etiquettes were formed and also in a your own tin box you cannot kiss or shake hands. Personally I would equip them all with very small cabriolets so that their normal impeccable etiquette would triumph over human nature as they came close enough to open their default behaviour mode.

Now for cuisine advice. You may recall my plan to cook curry on Sunday. Well, I did so and decided to use French curry powder in my lentil dahl. This was an expensive experiment at at about £2.50 for the normal sized jar. In UK ASDA I would pay about £1 at most. It was pale and weak. If you’re coming on holiday bring your own curry spices. There’s more tickle than massala.

Emma thinx: When you get home – put the car in you away.

Butcher Baker Soldier French

Posted on August 1, 2011 by emmacalin

To be one of the professional classes in the UK is a kind of shorthand for having a posh job as a lawyer, architect, doctor or dentist/headteacher etc. Now, I am sure that in the great cities of France, snobbery and all that “I’m better than you” stuff goes on. I’m not an expert on social class here but I can tell you that here in rural France the feeling is entirely different. Many moons ago in London when I was divorced and looking to get a life together I drove mini cabs, worked plucking turkeys and as a cleaner.(Check out my story from those days here).Some folk are great wherever they are. Some folk are arrogant pigs wherever they are. I can say that in the UK the “upper classes” generally treated me with surly superiority. The difference is embodied in the idea of respect. Quite simply tradesmen are still respected here. A plumber is a guru of plomb. A lorry driver is a guru of judgement and shunt. An artisan boulanger is a guru of cuisine and life.The French bemoan the fact that that there is a shortage of electricians and car mechanics. They believe that the reason is that less and less respect is shown for “trades”. They are right of course. One day there will be a super rich elite class here who will just buy underlings, snap commands and point at them with superior brusqueness. But it won’t be for a while I can tell you.The reason I got on to this is because today a further delivery of sand and cement arrived for Chateau Calin. My ex husband was a lorry driver and he was a sweet straightforward guy. (The world treated him like a piece of merde). We broke up when a lot of my posho pretensions (French speak, ART, Opera etc) pissed him off. The VM driver guy who brought the materials is a gent. He is a solicitor of sand. He is a guru of gravel. He is an accountant of aggregates. As the rasta boys used to say in South London – “Hey – RESPECT man”.

It has been hot. A couple of kids are here and they went to the young folks club. They went swimming in the river Charente. They don’t go to school locally and didn’t really know anyone. They were treated with friendliness and a sense of welcome and interest in them. Sometimes France gets a bad press from Brits. It’simple OK. In France the best and only thing to be in the world is French. So – Duh- be French. You’ve cracked it.

There are many mysteries of life in St. Savinien. One of them is the yellow recyclable waste sack. There is a rota. There are days and times for the collection of the sacks. Everyone thinks they know when these days are. Nobody says they got it wrong. It’s a French thing. I need to shrug more…..

Emma thinx: The world’s oldest profession is respect.

X Certificate Trailer

Posted on July 30, 2011 by emmacalin

The French love construction work. Ownership of a trailer containing some sand and a few ubiquitous planks is almost de rigeur. This does not mean that one actually does any construction. It means that one is the type who can. Generally trailers are used to take horticultural waste to the municipal tip. Now – if there is one reason to live here it is La Déchetterie. All of us Brits will have queued for the Municipal tip in the UK. Once you park, you climb some high metal steps, dragging some massive item such a mattress. Once you have scaled the North face of Mont-bin there is last push for the summit. The edge of the metal bin is about neck height. With superhuman force you heave in the load and stumble exhausted back to your car. Here, there is a simple solution. The car park is raised and the bins are below you. Now, there is of course the possibility of all manner of vehicle careering into the bin. I guess it has happened somewhere. I’ll chance it. There’s always an old tractor close by to pull you out.

Going back to the genetic love of construction, a pile of stone or sand acts as a magnet. It signifies Les Travaux. It’s like having a dog. With it comes all manner of guidance. “Oh yes – you ave to be certain of the foundations – zees sand will compress.” Yesterday a well wisher stopped to look at the stones but decided to address the matter of window frames instead, “You will have to very careful – there is plomb in the paint.” Knowing that I am English the term plomb had to be magnified in a kind of English. “Metal you know – so heavy in zee blood. You need masks to stop breathing” I agreed to stop breathing if I went too close. He seemed happy. “The man who had this house who sold it to some people before – some years ago – he rendered that wall and he just had three young men who were not builders and it was not a good job.” Oh dear. “And then you have to sure of the termites and do not forget the capricorns. You must always be sure of your infestation certificate. Sometimes things just collapse.” I began to feel that way myself. He is a kind guy. He has a really big trailer. He does a lot of inspecting.

Gonna fix a nice curry for tomorrow. Bet you I can’t find any lime pickle or papads. Perhaps you know different? (Don’t tell me how to make them! I have tried it. I think they are using them as discus in the London Olympics.)

Emma thinx: Tired of those old fantasies? Ask your lover if they’ll do a swap.

Merry Widow

Posted on July 25, 2011 by emmacalin

I feel like a widow – or perhaps a deserted faithful wife. All that time I watched the Tour de France, and now it’s gone. This afternoon I had to do some writing because there was no excuse. When I first came to Paris as an innocent wanting to impress, I assumed that everyone knew about the cycling. I used to rehearse sentences containing references to famous riders and pontificate about the possible outcomes for next year. Generally I was met with complete incomprehension. In the end I fell back on my support for Crystal Palace football club. It was as if the sun had risen, bathing us all in warmth. “Oh yes – Zay are in your second deeviziyoh – etc…” Here in St. Savinien I find that the tyranny of football has almost no grip. Most things that one mentions of the wide world are too far away, too dramatic, too foreign to contemplate. It’s wonderful.

All the same I did a straw poll amongst a few locals as I prepared to blog. This bizarre DSK affair rolls on in New York. Now, as readers will know I like (and write) cop stories. You will also know that I had a Scotland Yard partner for a while and that his insights were illuminating. So – this Mr Big chap is accused of all sorts of sexual crime. This is serious. We are talking years in jail here. I can’t believe that I saw the accuser giving her evidence on TV in advance of the trial. I just can’t believe it. What is going on here? The USA is a civilised country with a belief in justice and a constitution enshrined in law. So what do the French make of it all? Bref – if he is guilty he must go to jail – BUT- maybe Obama is against Israel (therefore Jews) or maybe DSK wanted to change the world money system and there was a plot…or maybe it is just so far away and so foreign that it doesn’t matter. I just worry about what’s happening to judicial processes. It’s not a circus is it?

Gifts today were of a further bucket of mirabelles (now frozen) and a wooden chopping board. I heard the angel of all beasts outside. It crossed my mind that some cat/pigeon/parrot was in distress. “Emma – We have found some chopping boards in the cellar – I am giving one to you and some to so and so and so and so.” An angel chose me! Sod the world – I live in paradise.
And finally – my new book cover for Knockout has been knocked out. It really is a knockout!

Emma thinx: Angels can be smokers too.

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Sound Investment

Posted on July 24, 2011 by emmacalin

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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.

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When the Saint Saviniens go Marching In

Posted on July 18, 2011 by emmacalin

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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.