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.

Checklit

Posted on July 31, 2011 by emmacalin

The holidays have begun for real. Massive queues on Autoroutes, businesses closed down. Our little town was buzzing this morning as campers and day tourists filled the streets. All in all a good day to stay at home and write. I really should talk more about writing. I have all kind of writing missions to fulfill. I have to do something for a web site dealing with French life. I have to do something about being on Kindle. I have to do some book promo blurb. All of these things are quite pleasant and give me the illusion of actually writing. As far as the book publishing aspect of writing I am so lucky that Gilles selflessly gives up so much time to help me with the inflammation technology. Rosina does all manner of promotions and chasing sales. To be honest I’ve come to think that being a Kindle author is almost more about the tub thumping than the actual book. Now, let me say a bit about my book “Knockout!”. Recently a reviewer saw my new professionally produced cover and said ” Excuse me – but it does kinda look like a Harlequin style romance.” Well, BINGO! I wish I had their success. I’ve read many Harlequin Romances over the years and they do not present many surprises. I first came to read them in French when I was looking for relatively unsophisticated vocabulary and prose style. “Knockout!” is a straightforward romance, the sex is on the paler side of purple, passionate and has no obscenities or curious behaviours. It’s about a girl who falls for a big tough bloke. It’s supermarket checklit. It didn’t really happen. It’s a made up story. Harlequin – you can have me – you can kiss my lips numb, find a place in my core that I’ve never known before and carry me to your castle and impregnate me, with a contract and your babies.. You can take me now!

Gilles had his shirt off in the garden. He’s looking tanned. I do like to look at him – what’s the oldest possible age for a Romantic novel hero? I guess if he were a Latin billionaire…..

We have sparrows. The dear little souls have evaded various anti nesting devices under the roof tiles and this year’s brood of piafs seem to have come through well, despite the drought. I can never see a sparrow without mentally acknowledging Edith Piaf and how she changed the course of my life. She still flies on plainly dressed street wise wings and chirrups out the human soul.

Emma thinx: If you just can’t stop – at least enjoy it.

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.

Painting the Town White

Posted on July 29, 2011 by emmacalin

I guess I was having a bit of a Buddhist moment. I thought I’d do a bit of painting. No – not ART. (I think ART is too much about this world and the ego and the me me me.) Nothing wrong with that but the Dalai Lama hasn’t been a Turnover prize winner has he? So – I was blanching the walls. Here in Charente the walls are Blanc, maybe une rose claire or maybe a risque beige. The sun bounces off the pastels while cherubs sleep on my wall. Look – I’m a Tacky Romantic OK. The front face of the house had become a bit tatty and flaky. I started to clean and brush the stone. First I saw a panicking earwig disturbed from somewhere on the flagstones. Generations of them had lived in a certain universe. I mean A UNIVERSE OF CERTAINTY. Suddenly a Mr Brico broom entered their cosmos. As I worked I caught a cob web in my paint roller. A spider reeled out a life saving silk of utter magical strength and mystery…..and landed in my tray of paint. Certainty destroyed again- scales of Time and Dimension overturned and brutalised. We are no less fragile but our scale of Time and power is different. World markets, the circus of greed, the preaching hedonists ( had to put myself in somewhere) will be swept away. All is relative and will change. I work on ideas of acceptance, wondering if I can have a glass of wine before 5 O’ clock.

While I was painting several folk stopped for a chat. As I was drinking a cup of tea, a neighbour remarked that I always had a cup of tea in my hand. “This is how we won the Empire, the World War and the CUP in 1966.” I replied, “What do you do in France?” The neighbour thought for a moment – “We have longer lunches and then it is time for aperitif.” He replied. I thought he was joking – until he came back with a glass of Pineau. Well, it was after 5.

Outside as I write a pigeon is giving it some real wellie. Wherever you are in the world pigeons and cockerels sound the same….yes a cockerel has just started up, probably to out-shout the bloody pigeon. BUT today I saw three butterflies. There has been a shortage and there still is no doubt. In the drought of butterflies a single one is a joy. The fragile motion of its paper thin defiant wings scribbled a poem against the blue sky that left me in tears.

Years ago I did a poem about power and change. It’s silly and banal but somehow I kept it. Check out “I threw a stone”

Emma thinx: To most living things, we are the Tsunami.

The Grapes of Sloth

Posted on July 27, 2011 by emmacalin

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

Posted on July 26, 2011 by emmacalin

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.

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.

If you enjoyed this post – why not get it delivered automatically by subscribing (see top right on this page)

Sound Investment

Posted on July 24, 2011 by emmacalin

https://i0.wp.com/www.lavoixeco.com/mediastore/VDN/A2008/M12/intermarche-le-magasin-doublera-sa-sur-1470292.jpg.jpg

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