Today I got the proof of receipt:
Are they trying to tell me something?
Showing posts with label quirky things. Show all posts
Showing posts with label quirky things. Show all posts
Friday, 25 May 2012
Is someone trying to tell me something?
A few days ago I sent my passport off for renewal to the British Embassy in Paris. Like all other Brits in France no doubt I moaned and groaned about the cost of it all: nearly 200 euros including the compulsory courier fee for the new passport to be returned.
Today I got the proof of receipt:
Are they trying to tell me something?
Today I got the proof of receipt:
Are they trying to tell me something?
Friday, 13 May 2011
One of those weeks
It's been one of those weeks.
Monday. Car goes to local garage (40 minutes walk back and there) for annual service.
Tuesday. Car has developed flobalobalobalob type rattle underneath. Back to local garage who predict a loose engine cover (almost every Citroen has got one. We lost one altogether once, on the autoroute). Collect car. Still flobalobalobalob-ing merrily.
Wednesday. Back to local garage. Take technician for a ride. Instantly and without looking he diagnoses worn suspension hangers, or some such thing. Amazingly, in spite of ultra-rural location, part arrives by lunchtime; job done by 4.30pm. Collect car. Rattle ceased. But ....
While driving car home attacked by flying stone on the only 250 metres of route with oncoming traffic. Nothing visible at first. 4 minutes later large crack has appeared in windscreen. Phone Carglass (Carglass répare! Carglass remplace! Ah ... the power of advertising ....). Answer 1001 questions relating to colour of car workers underpants when he installed windscreen in 2003 and what he ate for breakfast that day. Discover that only local-technician-who-does-callouts is occupied until sometime in next millenium. Fix appointment for next day at nearest Carglass agency, in Toulouse.
Thursday. Drive to Toulouse. It's 32 degrees. Spend 3 hours walking round commercial centre while windscreen replaced. Wilt. Drive home. No rattle. No crack. New (free) windscreen wipers. Bliss.
And found this in my emails, sent by friend. Usually ignore/delete these round robin 'funnies'. For once, didn't.
There's a car upside down in the water. See the guy standing on it?
Could have been a worse week, it seems.
Today: Friday 13th. All goes swimmingly. Hmm.
Monday. Car goes to local garage (40 minutes walk back and there) for annual service.
Tuesday. Car has developed flobalobalobalob type rattle underneath. Back to local garage who predict a loose engine cover (almost every Citroen has got one. We lost one altogether once, on the autoroute). Collect car. Still flobalobalobalob-ing merrily.
Wednesday. Back to local garage. Take technician for a ride. Instantly and without looking he diagnoses worn suspension hangers, or some such thing. Amazingly, in spite of ultra-rural location, part arrives by lunchtime; job done by 4.30pm. Collect car. Rattle ceased. But ....
While driving car home attacked by flying stone on the only 250 metres of route with oncoming traffic. Nothing visible at first. 4 minutes later large crack has appeared in windscreen. Phone Carglass (Carglass répare! Carglass remplace! Ah ... the power of advertising ....). Answer 1001 questions relating to colour of car workers underpants when he installed windscreen in 2003 and what he ate for breakfast that day. Discover that only local-technician-who-does-callouts is occupied until sometime in next millenium. Fix appointment for next day at nearest Carglass agency, in Toulouse.
Thursday. Drive to Toulouse. It's 32 degrees. Spend 3 hours walking round commercial centre while windscreen replaced. Wilt. Drive home. No rattle. No crack. New (free) windscreen wipers. Bliss.
And found this in my emails, sent by friend. Usually ignore/delete these round robin 'funnies'. For once, didn't.
There's a car upside down in the water. See the guy standing on it?
Could have been a worse week, it seems.
Today: Friday 13th. All goes swimmingly. Hmm.
Wednesday, 4 May 2011
Dastardly doings down here in the woods ...
For the last couple of years we've been experiencing some strange phenomena here at Grillou (and no, I don't mean the builders). In a nutshell, things disappear, and then they reappear again, usually in exactly the same place from which they disappeared.
You might, as I did for quite some time, put this down to normal absentmindedness. I mean, everybody loses things from time to time, don't they? Even me, in spite of being anal-retentive-obsessive-compulsive about everything having its place. But I know now that that's not what's going on.
It started with my clothes. First of all a pair of my favourite brown jeans disappeared along with a pink tee shirt. I turned the house upside down. John turned the house upside down. Several times. They were nowhere. Six months later, both items reappeared in the exact places from which they'd disappeared. Other items of clothing did the same thing. Only ever mine, never John's.
Last week, quite by accident while having a big rubbish removal session, I found a vital part for attaching a half-pedestal to its washbasin that had been missing since last October. We'd spent tens of hours searching for it, and finally ended up ordering a new part from Villeroy & Boch. There it was, at the bottom of a huge box, underneath a huge pile of old sheets and blankets. The box was underneath several other boxes on the first floor of one of our barns. All the boxes had been stored there, untouched, for two years.
Nearly three years ago, I lost a pair of prescription sunglasses. I knew exactly where I'd last worn them: on a chilly October Saturday when we'd gone to the market in St Girons and on to have lunch at a restaurant on the quay, where I changed into normal glasses. When I got home, my sunglasses were nowhere to be found. Having checked back with the restaurant and turned the house upside down (again) I decided they must have fallen out of the car, and reluctantly wrote them off. Today, I found them. They were in my laptop bag. Only problem is, I've only owned that bag for a year. It probably wasn't even manufactured when my glasses disappeared.
Now this is all getting fascinating, but a bit bizarre. It's not however, unheard of: a quick Google produced something called Disappearing Object Phenomenon, which seems to happen to a surprising number of people. So what's going on? Is it some kind of paranormal activity? Is Grillou home to what Native Americans call the Little People, a race of spirits who you may sometimes glimpse just out of the corner of your eye and are here to teach us Big People lessons - such as not taking life too seriously, for example. Or is there some kind of dimensional shift going on? A crack in the fabric of spacetime? Parallel universes? Or some other kind of quantum phenomenon - a change from particle to wave mode, for instance? Or photons suddenly vibrating at a different rate so that an object becomes temporarily invisible, or dematerialises-rematerialises?
Or am I just losing the plot altogether? Where's Doctor Who when you need him?
You might, as I did for quite some time, put this down to normal absentmindedness. I mean, everybody loses things from time to time, don't they? Even me, in spite of being anal-retentive-obsessive-compulsive about everything having its place. But I know now that that's not what's going on.
It started with my clothes. First of all a pair of my favourite brown jeans disappeared along with a pink tee shirt. I turned the house upside down. John turned the house upside down. Several times. They were nowhere. Six months later, both items reappeared in the exact places from which they'd disappeared. Other items of clothing did the same thing. Only ever mine, never John's.
Last week, quite by accident while having a big rubbish removal session, I found a vital part for attaching a half-pedestal to its washbasin that had been missing since last October. We'd spent tens of hours searching for it, and finally ended up ordering a new part from Villeroy & Boch. There it was, at the bottom of a huge box, underneath a huge pile of old sheets and blankets. The box was underneath several other boxes on the first floor of one of our barns. All the boxes had been stored there, untouched, for two years.
Nearly three years ago, I lost a pair of prescription sunglasses. I knew exactly where I'd last worn them: on a chilly October Saturday when we'd gone to the market in St Girons and on to have lunch at a restaurant on the quay, where I changed into normal glasses. When I got home, my sunglasses were nowhere to be found. Having checked back with the restaurant and turned the house upside down (again) I decided they must have fallen out of the car, and reluctantly wrote them off. Today, I found them. They were in my laptop bag. Only problem is, I've only owned that bag for a year. It probably wasn't even manufactured when my glasses disappeared.
Now this is all getting fascinating, but a bit bizarre. It's not however, unheard of: a quick Google produced something called Disappearing Object Phenomenon, which seems to happen to a surprising number of people. So what's going on? Is it some kind of paranormal activity? Is Grillou home to what Native Americans call the Little People, a race of spirits who you may sometimes glimpse just out of the corner of your eye and are here to teach us Big People lessons - such as not taking life too seriously, for example. Or is there some kind of dimensional shift going on? A crack in the fabric of spacetime? Parallel universes? Or some other kind of quantum phenomenon - a change from particle to wave mode, for instance? Or photons suddenly vibrating at a different rate so that an object becomes temporarily invisible, or dematerialises-rematerialises?
Or am I just losing the plot altogether? Where's Doctor Who when you need him?
Saturday, 12 February 2011
Stylish? Moi?
Not a word usually uttered in connection with yours truly, especially at the moment when every day is spent in clothes that are multi-coloured with limewash and stiff with tile cement, but my fellow blogger Sandee, who writes (and far more diligently than I do) a lovely rambling blog called, appropriately, Sandee's Ramblins, has just passed on to me something called the Stylish Blogger Award. I'm impressed, even if I think she might need a new pair of glasses ....
Said award, however, comes with a price on its head. I have to share seven random things about myself. So here goes.
1. Neither of my names bear any relation to those given me by my parents: my first name Kalba was given to me by an Indian mystic; my second, Meadows, I chose for myself.
2. Grillou is the twentieth house I've lived in during my lifetime.
3. I actually quite like French television.
4. I am the World's Worst Facebooker. I have an account; I even have friends. But I've never posted and rarely remember to log on.
5. When I'm slogging up a steep mountain slope on a hot day I often have a vision of an ice cold can of Coca Cola just in front of me, even though I don't like the stuff.
6. I love Marmite.
7. I am fascinated by language, and languages. When I was seventeen I spent a summer in Finland and tried to learn Finnish but finally gave up, beaten by (amongst other things) the fifteen noun cases.
There. That's pretty random, huh? Now, the second thing I'm supposed to do is to pass on the award to 15 other bloggers. That might take a while, as at the moment I rarely have time to read other blogs (I know, I know). But watch this space.
Said award, however, comes with a price on its head. I have to share seven random things about myself. So here goes.
1. Neither of my names bear any relation to those given me by my parents: my first name Kalba was given to me by an Indian mystic; my second, Meadows, I chose for myself.
2. Grillou is the twentieth house I've lived in during my lifetime.
3. I actually quite like French television.
4. I am the World's Worst Facebooker. I have an account; I even have friends. But I've never posted and rarely remember to log on.
5. When I'm slogging up a steep mountain slope on a hot day I often have a vision of an ice cold can of Coca Cola just in front of me, even though I don't like the stuff.
6. I love Marmite.
7. I am fascinated by language, and languages. When I was seventeen I spent a summer in Finland and tried to learn Finnish but finally gave up, beaten by (amongst other things) the fifteen noun cases.
There. That's pretty random, huh? Now, the second thing I'm supposed to do is to pass on the award to 15 other bloggers. That might take a while, as at the moment I rarely have time to read other blogs (I know, I know). But watch this space.
Monday, 3 January 2011
Don't call me madam(e)
It so happens that as I still have the occasional dribble of income from the UK, I keep an account in a certain British bank, along with its associated credit card. Normally I don't pay much attention to it, nor it to me. But every so often it seems like a good idea to spend the dribble of income rather than let it contribute to the Bankers Pension Fund, and so last week when La Redoute had a vente privée (a kind of pre-sale sale, limited to previous customers and usually much more attractive than the sales proper, which start next week) I decided to spend it on some new linen for one of our guest beds. After a typically Libran angst-filled online evening (How many threads per centimetre? Ecru or taupe with the ivory sheets? Flappy bits on the pillowcases or not? Fitted sheets or flat ones?), I submitted my order, flashed my UK credit card at my laptop, and mopped my brow.
The next morning I had an email from La Redoute, telling me that my payment had been refused. Thinking that there had been a simple mistake, that afternoon I cancelled the order then put it through again. Ten minutes later, same thing: payment refused. Sigh. Nothing for it but a long and tedious telephone call to The Bank. Now I hate talking to banks. They seem to occupy a different universe to the one I inhabit. But after the statutory 17 minutes pressing 1 or 2 or hash and listening to The Four Seasons, I found myself taking to a person who appeared to know my name. So far so promising.
Having told her my grandmother's dog's name and when I last cut my toenails (they call it the security test, I think), I regaled her with the story so far. "Oh yes" she said. "We blocked your card last night".
"Er - why?"
"Because we weren't sure it was you".
"Er - why?"
"I can't tell you that".
"Er - why?"
"It's for your own security".
I'll skip the next ten minutes lest you lose the will to live, but eventually we got to the the point where I had learned that it 'could have been' because there was a discrepancy between the name and address provided by La Redoute and that held by The Bank. Having eliminated possible spelling mistakes, and differences in where English and French addresses place the postcode, I was stumped. Until ......
"Could it be" I asked, "that The Bank's computer systems don't recognise the Madame in front of my name and think it's another forename instead of a salutation?"
"Um - that could indeed possibly theoretically happen" said my patient, if scripted, advisor. Aha! She means yes, I thought. Good. Now we know what the problem is, we can set something up to stop it happening again.
Wrong. She went on to tell me that every time I made a so-called cardholder-not-present transaction using the same details, my card would be automatically blocked "for my own security" (eh?) and payment would be refused. There was no way round it. The computer knows best.
"Right", I said, counting to ten. "So what can I do in order to be able to spend my own money, where I live?".
"Well, the best thing is if you give your name to these French shops as Ms instead of [sic] madam", she said. I swallowed a snort. Clearly she's never been to France.
"Okay, so could I perhaps change my salutation with The Bank to Madame?" I wondered, still trying - heaven knows why - to be constructive. She went off to consult.
Computer said no. I could be Mr, Mrs, Ms, Miss, Dr, Professor, Captain, Colonel, Lady, Lord, Major, Master, Rev, Sir, Sister, Viscount, Dame or Rabbi. But just don't call me Madame. For my own security, of course.
Welcome to Europe.
The next morning I had an email from La Redoute, telling me that my payment had been refused. Thinking that there had been a simple mistake, that afternoon I cancelled the order then put it through again. Ten minutes later, same thing: payment refused. Sigh. Nothing for it but a long and tedious telephone call to The Bank. Now I hate talking to banks. They seem to occupy a different universe to the one I inhabit. But after the statutory 17 minutes pressing 1 or 2 or hash and listening to The Four Seasons, I found myself taking to a person who appeared to know my name. So far so promising.
Having told her my grandmother's dog's name and when I last cut my toenails (they call it the security test, I think), I regaled her with the story so far. "Oh yes" she said. "We blocked your card last night".
"Er - why?"
"Because we weren't sure it was you".
"Er - why?"
"I can't tell you that".
"Er - why?"
"It's for your own security".
I'll skip the next ten minutes lest you lose the will to live, but eventually we got to the the point where I had learned that it 'could have been' because there was a discrepancy between the name and address provided by La Redoute and that held by The Bank. Having eliminated possible spelling mistakes, and differences in where English and French addresses place the postcode, I was stumped. Until ......
"Could it be" I asked, "that The Bank's computer systems don't recognise the Madame in front of my name and think it's another forename instead of a salutation?"
"Um - that could indeed possibly theoretically happen" said my patient, if scripted, advisor. Aha! She means yes, I thought. Good. Now we know what the problem is, we can set something up to stop it happening again.
Wrong. She went on to tell me that every time I made a so-called cardholder-not-present transaction using the same details, my card would be automatically blocked "for my own security" (eh?) and payment would be refused. There was no way round it. The computer knows best.
"Right", I said, counting to ten. "So what can I do in order to be able to spend my own money, where I live?".
"Well, the best thing is if you give your name to these French shops as Ms instead of [sic] madam", she said. I swallowed a snort. Clearly she's never been to France.
"Okay, so could I perhaps change my salutation with The Bank to Madame?" I wondered, still trying - heaven knows why - to be constructive. She went off to consult.
Computer said no. I could be Mr, Mrs, Ms, Miss, Dr, Professor, Captain, Colonel, Lady, Lord, Major, Master, Rev, Sir, Sister, Viscount, Dame or Rabbi. But just don't call me Madame. For my own security, of course.
Welcome to Europe.
Monday, 20 December 2010
Dear Père Noël ....
Dear Père Noël
How are things? I hope you're well and not too stressed out, and that Rudolph's nose is better (has he tried calendula ointment, I wonder?). I realise it's quite a number of years since you've heard from me, but I'm sure you must remember me. I was the one who always used to drink your sherry and replace it with cough medicine.
Anyway. Those days are over: I don't use cough medicine any more. I know you'll be very busy so I won't take up too much of your time, but I was I wondering - ahem - if you might be persuaded to pay me another visit. Please don't listen to anything they might tell you: I have tried really hard to be good this year - I mean look, we've even had the builders here for weeks and I've not murdered anyone. And you can't get much more gooder than that. So if you could just see your way to dropping down my chimney - that'll be the one nearest the Pyrénées, otherwise you'll get stuck in the cooker hood - here are five things that I'd really like:
1. An extra day each week; a secret one, that doesn't appear on the calendar, and if you could just slip it into a different dimension so nobody can find me when I'm sitting reading that would be even better.
2. To miraculously find clean, ironed, white Egyptian cotton sheets on my bed every night.
3. A non-white Christmas so that I can actually carry the materials that I'm working with to and from the barn without crampons and an ice axe.
4. A tardis. I would really love to be able to travel forward in time just to reassure myself that we will finish the work on this house, one day, in my lifetime. And I'd like to be able to travel backwards too, because there are a few decisions I might have taken differently if I knew what I know now. Which reminds me, while we're on that subject ...
5. Do you think it might be possible to have the gift of hindsight, only to have it in advance?
There. I think that's quite restrained, don't you? If you don't think it's enough to be worth the detour, I'd also rather like to borrow a few of your Little Helpers for a while, but I don't want to appear greedy.
Now, do you know the way to Grillou? I expect you use a SatNav these days, so just a word of warning - when you get to Rimont it'll try to send you up a muddy track and through a lake. Not useful, and the reindeer will get chillblains. I'm afraid I won't be able to leave you a glass of sherry as you just can't get the stuff here; would some rather nice Muscat de Saint Jean de Minervois do instead, I wonder?
Anyway, I do hope you all have a lovely Christmas. Please try to stay zen, and remember to breathe.
Love
Kalba xx
How are things? I hope you're well and not too stressed out, and that Rudolph's nose is better (has he tried calendula ointment, I wonder?). I realise it's quite a number of years since you've heard from me, but I'm sure you must remember me. I was the one who always used to drink your sherry and replace it with cough medicine.
Anyway. Those days are over: I don't use cough medicine any more. I know you'll be very busy so I won't take up too much of your time, but I was I wondering - ahem - if you might be persuaded to pay me another visit. Please don't listen to anything they might tell you: I have tried really hard to be good this year - I mean look, we've even had the builders here for weeks and I've not murdered anyone. And you can't get much more gooder than that. So if you could just see your way to dropping down my chimney - that'll be the one nearest the Pyrénées, otherwise you'll get stuck in the cooker hood - here are five things that I'd really like:
1. An extra day each week; a secret one, that doesn't appear on the calendar, and if you could just slip it into a different dimension so nobody can find me when I'm sitting reading that would be even better.
2. To miraculously find clean, ironed, white Egyptian cotton sheets on my bed every night.
3. A non-white Christmas so that I can actually carry the materials that I'm working with to and from the barn without crampons and an ice axe.
4. A tardis. I would really love to be able to travel forward in time just to reassure myself that we will finish the work on this house, one day, in my lifetime. And I'd like to be able to travel backwards too, because there are a few decisions I might have taken differently if I knew what I know now. Which reminds me, while we're on that subject ...
5. Do you think it might be possible to have the gift of hindsight, only to have it in advance?
There. I think that's quite restrained, don't you? If you don't think it's enough to be worth the detour, I'd also rather like to borrow a few of your Little Helpers for a while, but I don't want to appear greedy.
Now, do you know the way to Grillou? I expect you use a SatNav these days, so just a word of warning - when you get to Rimont it'll try to send you up a muddy track and through a lake. Not useful, and the reindeer will get chillblains. I'm afraid I won't be able to leave you a glass of sherry as you just can't get the stuff here; would some rather nice Muscat de Saint Jean de Minervois do instead, I wonder?
Anyway, I do hope you all have a lovely Christmas. Please try to stay zen, and remember to breathe.
Love
Kalba xx
Tuesday, 9 November 2010
Ariège Moun Pais
The new Ariégeois anthem! Will it take over from Se Canto, I wonder???? (Sorry. Ariège joke ...).
ARIEGE MOUN PAIS
(Paroles et musique Florent Adroit mars 2010)
Je viens te parler d’un morceau de terre
Pas plus grand que ça mais dont je suis fier
Pas plus grand que ça mais dont je suis fier
Pas loin de l’Espagne même près d’Andorre
Comme un privilège, comme un gros trésor
Comme un privilège, comme un gros trésor
Toi tu montes au « Pass », eux, ils montent au pa
Ce n’est pas l’Ardèche, non tu connais pas ?
Pourtant je t’assure qu’il y a un grand A
A comme l’Ariège, A comme Ariégeois
Ce n’est pas l’Ardèche, non tu connais pas ?
Pourtant je t’assure qu’il y a un grand A
A comme l’Ariège, A comme Ariégeois
REFRAIN
Lève ton drapeau, chante tes couleurs
Au vu des montagnes qui sont ton bonheur
Car les gars du nord aiment ton accent
C’est parce que ça monte et puis ça descend
Chante « se canto » la main sur le cœur
Ariège « moun païs » rien ne te fait peur
Car il n’y a pas plus fier que d’être Ariègeois
Chante le bien fort et chante en patois
Au vu des montagnes qui sont ton bonheur
Car les gars du nord aiment ton accent
C’est parce que ça monte et puis ça descend
Chante « se canto » la main sur le cœur
Ariège « moun païs » rien ne te fait peur
Car il n’y a pas plus fier que d’être Ariègeois
Chante le bien fort et chante en patois
————
Non pas toulousain, non pas Doriphore
Nous on les aime bien, eux ils nous adorent !
Pour nos champignons et nos Pyrénées
Nous pour le travail, c’est juste à côté !
Nous on les aime bien, eux ils nous adorent !
Pour nos champignons et nos Pyrénées
Nous pour le travail, c’est juste à côté !
On est espanté de voir que ça pègue
Dans nos expressions, là haut ils roumèguent
De ne pas comprendre la moitié des mots
On dit pas qu’est ce que c’est? On dit « Quésaco !!!»
Dans nos expressions, là haut ils roumèguent
De ne pas comprendre la moitié des mots
On dit pas qu’est ce que c’est? On dit « Quésaco !!!»
REFRAIN
Et à son panneau tu klaxonneras
Comme une sirène pour dire Ariègeois
Tu verras ensuite le panorama
Qui est magnifique, qui laisse sans voix
Comme une sirène pour dire Ariègeois
Tu verras ensuite le panorama
Qui est magnifique, qui laisse sans voix
Car si tu t’exiles un peu trop longtemps
Loin de tes verdures, loin de ton accent
Tu verras alors que des bons côtés
Tu verras l’Ariège : ça va te manquer !
Loin de tes verdures, loin de ton accent
Tu verras alors que des bons côtés
Tu verras l’Ariège : ça va te manquer !
REFRAIN
Chante « se canto » la main sur le cœur
Ariège « moun païs » rien ne te fait peur
Car il n’y a pas plus fier que d’être Ariègeois
Chante le bien fort et chante en patois
Ariège « moun païs » rien ne te fait peur
Car il n’y a pas plus fier que d’être Ariègeois
Chante le bien fort et chante en patois
Monday, 14 December 2009
Hex your ex ...
Just in case you're still looking for that elusive Christmas present, I may have found you just the thing. This week's pub (that's as in publicité - the stuff that drops into our postbox every week regaling us with the best bargain buys) tells me that La Foir'Fouille is selling voodoo dolls, complete with pins. There are dolls to represent your boss, your ex-partner, and ... your mother in law. ("She harasses you on the phone? Regales you constantly with a thousand and one useless bits of information? Criticises your lifestyle, the way you cook, the way you bring up your kids? A great present for anyone who wants to wreak vengeance on their mother in law").Each voodoo point is labelled with a 'vengeful wish': by judicious pin sticking, you can apparently cause your MIL to lose her voice, fall down the stairs, suffer permanent memory loss or choke on her dinner, amongst other things (none of them pleasant). "Warning" says the blurb for these things, "This is not a toy or game". Hmm. Nice.
Mind you, voodoo dolls are not new here. Last year, a publishing firm started to sell a voodoo doll of Nicolas Sarkozy. He was so - er - needled by the doll that he took the company to court, claiming was that every citizen in France owned the rights to their own image ... and he lost. The court's ruling was that the doll fell within the 'boundaries of freedom of expression and the right to humour'. The irony is that before he took legal action, nobody had heard of the dolls, but the whole affair became big news and sales rocketed.
Now I'm all for freedom of expression, but I'm not sure I'd describe what's going on here as 'humour'. But then France moves in mysterious ways ...
Merry Christmas, belle mère.
Tuesday, 18 August 2009
Exposed beams
We're having a heatwave. It's official. Not quite official enough, here in Ariège, to trigger the government's canicule plan, brought in after nearly 20,000 people died in France during the 2003 heatwave; but official enough to be the ongoing subject of media coverage, not to mention many a conversation. And it is hot; afternoon temperatures are up to at least 36 degrees in the shade, dropping to a more comfortable 26 degrees or so at around 10pm. In the sun? Put it this way - my thermometer goes up to 50 degrees, and it's off the scale. Working is becoming increasingly taxing, and I keep having fantasies of diving into cool water.
So the timing was apt this week when a friend in England sent me the bizarre piece of news that the theme park Alton Towers has banned men from wearing Speedo-type swimming trunks 'on grounds of public decency'. I honestly thought this was a joke at first, but having followed up the links she sent it appears that it isn't: apparently "the style is not deemed public or family friendly" and is likely to "cause embarrassment".
Am I missing something here? Do most people not have bodies, and bits that stick out here and there, and - heaven forfend - body hair? And wasn't the whole Adam and Eve thing a long time ago, and just a fable and/or a lot of tosh (depending on your persuasion) anyway? When, and how, did we learn to be so ashamed and embarrassed about our physical form? Surely to goodness, in the twenty-first century, it's time to move on from the smutty seaside postcard ...
Here in France, if you're male and you want to swim in the vast majority of public pools you have to wear Speedos (and, usually, a swimming hat). No bermudas, no question. It's deemed unhygienic to bathe in a swimming pool in clothes that you could have been (and probably have been) wearing in the street all day. It would, the official line goes, simply turn the pool into a wash house. My friend's Alton Towers story reminded me of a story I read in our regional newspaper, La Dépêche du Midi, a few weeks ago.
Until this year, there have been two public pools in Toulouse which allowed the wearing of bermudas: a small pool, Castex, and the much larger one close by, Nakache. Castex has for some time been a favourite haunt of young people from the quartiers populaires - working class estates - in the area, and has had a reputation for being, shall we say, a bit on the lively side. Tensions between the teenagers and other pool users ran high; two years ago the entire pool area had to be evacuated when a pitched battle broke out between fifty or so teenagers and security guards, and then the police that were called to restore order. That kind of thing.
Clearly Something Had To Be Done. But what? Well, a bit of uncharacteristically creative thinking out of the box obviously took place: a solution has been found, and appears to be working. But it doesn't involve extra policing or heavy-handed rules or showcase arrests. Local officials have simply banned the wearing of bermudas at Castex, while continuing to allow it, by special dispensation, at Nakache.
As if by magic, the yoof has migrated to Nakache, which is much bigger and is a leisure pool as opposed to a swimming pool, as it were, whereas the swimmers have returned to Castex. Hanging out and joshing in a pair of Speedos and a swimming cap is simply not cool; besides, many of the teenagers are of Muslim origin and consider themselves to be too prudish to wear, as La Dépêche puts it, 'le maillot à poutre apparente' (lit: swimming costume with exposed beam' (!). Nakache has reported a high frequentation, good spirits and no problems. Castex swims peacefully. Problem solved.
Chapeau.
Tuesday, 7 July 2009
Tales from the river bank
You may (or there again this may just be my inflated sense of self importance) have noticed that it's been a while since I blogged. Actually, it's been longer than you think, because thanks to the wonders of Blogspot, my blog posts can miraculously appear even when I'm not here. Ta da. But - and are you sitting down? - we've been on holiday.
Neither of us took much persuasion, especially given our builderless status, a fantastic weather forecast and the fact that it was the last week before les grandes vacances, when half of France - the juilletistes - would hit the road (swapping with the other half, the aoûtiens, four weeks later on one of those notorious Saturdays when the autoroutes sweat under 93 kilometre tailbacks). You can only admire a country that has spawned words for people who take their holidays during particular months. There is, though, no word in the French language for people who take their holidays outside la saison, quite simply because nobody really does, except retired camping-caristes, and Belgians. And us.
We decided, as we were throwing the tent into the car (such was the extent of our holiday planning) to head off towards the Aveyron Gorges, an area that made a brief appearance on the list of places we once considered considering living in. After a brief stop in Gaillac, a very pleasant, if rather bourgeois, wine town now inhabited by the previous occupants of Grillou and to which having made a complete cochon of myself at the dessert buffet of our (mercifully un-bourgeois) lunchtime restaurant I may just not be allowed back, we found ourselves pitching the tent right on the banks of the Aveyron, on a wonderful campsite a few minutes walk outside St Antonin Noble Val.
St Antonin was, according to Wikipedia, beseiged and taken by the English in the fourteenth century. No change there then. It's the kind of place that clearly has an expat 'scene', and where the British residents gather in the bars on huge tables after the Sunday market. There is an English estate agent, book shop, holiday home management service; English artisans, artists, craftsmen, marketeers, bar staff ... someone told me that apparently around 30% of the town's occupants are English, and another, smaller, percentage Dutch.
It is an undeniably attractive place: a medieval town that (with the exception of the town hall, which was set upon by Viollet-le-Duc - he of Carcassonne cité fame) hasn't been over-restored and where a good number of buildings are in fact in a fairly ramshackle state, which gives it a feeling of authenticity missing from some of the more 'perfect' towns and villages I've stumbled around in a numbed out stupor before now. But I have to admit that I was slightly put off from spending much time in the town itself by the expatiness of it all - not my scene, not my style.
Instead, we explored some of the smaller villages nearby, like this one, Penne:
and Caylus, where we stumbled upon this wonderful wolf catcher's house:
Mostly, though, we spent many hours simply chilling by the river, and I spent many more swimming in it, much to the bemusement of our fellow campers who couldn't see why I would choose to ignore the site's perfectly good swimming pool in favour of something so - well, unsanitised. One day, after a particularly long swim up river and back, I decided to float the last few hundred metres in my customary I'm-pretending-to-be-in-a-flotation-tank position - arms and legs spreadeagled, ears underwater so I can't hear anything - and let the current take me back to my tent. After a while I became aware of a bit of a commotion going on on the bank to my left, and eventually curiosity got the better of me. There was a crowd of nine or ten campers, of a certain age, two of whom were attempting to wade into the water clutching their walking sticks while the others looked anxiously on, clutching each other and their Yorkshire terriers. "Bonjour, m'sieurs dames!" I called gaily as I swam past, none the wiser to what was going on and by now bemused by the tutting and head shaking that was going on behind me. As I clambered out a few metres on, our camping neighbour came over to me and told me that apparently they'd seen me floating down river and had become convinced that I was a noyée - a drowned or drowning person. None of them could swim, but they'd been trying to reach me with long sticks; they had just started to call the pompiers when I miraculously returned from the dead, turned over and swam on. I was not, shall we say, flavour of the month after that.
This part of the Aveyron is much loved by canoeists and kayakists, and each day as I was swimming upriver I would encounter not a few of these on their way down, which allowed me to pass my time profitably doing a little research into national traits. The French would always greet me, of course, and even when there were twenty or more of them, each one would bonjour me separately - and expect to be bonjour-ed back, which as you can imagine became a little tedious after a while. Still, at least they didn't expect me to shake hands or kiss them, which would, let's face it, have been difficult. The Dutch would also greet me, rather more earnestly but only once per group, with a spokesperson; they would almost always ask (probably to practise their French) where I was going. The Germans were usually paddling so fast that they only had time to nod briefly. The English? They would look the other way and hope I hadn't seen them.
We had a great time. And then it was good to get back to Ariège and its earthiness, its un-polishedness, its wildness, its greenness, its expansiveness, its simplicity, its people, its particular energy. Beware, if you come here. Ariège, if you 'get' it, is addictive.
Neither of us took much persuasion, especially given our builderless status, a fantastic weather forecast and the fact that it was the last week before les grandes vacances, when half of France - the juilletistes - would hit the road (swapping with the other half, the aoûtiens, four weeks later on one of those notorious Saturdays when the autoroutes sweat under 93 kilometre tailbacks). You can only admire a country that has spawned words for people who take their holidays during particular months. There is, though, no word in the French language for people who take their holidays outside la saison, quite simply because nobody really does, except retired camping-caristes, and Belgians. And us.
We decided, as we were throwing the tent into the car (such was the extent of our holiday planning) to head off towards the Aveyron Gorges, an area that made a brief appearance on the list of places we once considered considering living in. After a brief stop in Gaillac, a very pleasant, if rather bourgeois, wine town now inhabited by the previous occupants of Grillou and to which having made a complete cochon of myself at the dessert buffet of our (mercifully un-bourgeois) lunchtime restaurant I may just not be allowed back, we found ourselves pitching the tent right on the banks of the Aveyron, on a wonderful campsite a few minutes walk outside St Antonin Noble Val.
St Antonin was, according to Wikipedia, beseiged and taken by the English in the fourteenth century. No change there then. It's the kind of place that clearly has an expat 'scene', and where the British residents gather in the bars on huge tables after the Sunday market. There is an English estate agent, book shop, holiday home management service; English artisans, artists, craftsmen, marketeers, bar staff ... someone told me that apparently around 30% of the town's occupants are English, and another, smaller, percentage Dutch.
It is an undeniably attractive place: a medieval town that (with the exception of the town hall, which was set upon by Viollet-le-Duc - he of Carcassonne cité fame) hasn't been over-restored and where a good number of buildings are in fact in a fairly ramshackle state, which gives it a feeling of authenticity missing from some of the more 'perfect' towns and villages I've stumbled around in a numbed out stupor before now. But I have to admit that I was slightly put off from spending much time in the town itself by the expatiness of it all - not my scene, not my style.
Instead, we explored some of the smaller villages nearby, like this one, Penne:
and Caylus, where we stumbled upon this wonderful wolf catcher's house:
Mostly, though, we spent many hours simply chilling by the river, and I spent many more swimming in it, much to the bemusement of our fellow campers who couldn't see why I would choose to ignore the site's perfectly good swimming pool in favour of something so - well, unsanitised. One day, after a particularly long swim up river and back, I decided to float the last few hundred metres in my customary I'm-pretending-to-be-in-a-flotation-tank position - arms and legs spreadeagled, ears underwater so I can't hear anything - and let the current take me back to my tent. After a while I became aware of a bit of a commotion going on on the bank to my left, and eventually curiosity got the better of me. There was a crowd of nine or ten campers, of a certain age, two of whom were attempting to wade into the water clutching their walking sticks while the others looked anxiously on, clutching each other and their Yorkshire terriers. "Bonjour, m'sieurs dames!" I called gaily as I swam past, none the wiser to what was going on and by now bemused by the tutting and head shaking that was going on behind me. As I clambered out a few metres on, our camping neighbour came over to me and told me that apparently they'd seen me floating down river and had become convinced that I was a noyée - a drowned or drowning person. None of them could swim, but they'd been trying to reach me with long sticks; they had just started to call the pompiers when I miraculously returned from the dead, turned over and swam on. I was not, shall we say, flavour of the month after that.
This part of the Aveyron is much loved by canoeists and kayakists, and each day as I was swimming upriver I would encounter not a few of these on their way down, which allowed me to pass my time profitably doing a little research into national traits. The French would always greet me, of course, and even when there were twenty or more of them, each one would bonjour me separately - and expect to be bonjour-ed back, which as you can imagine became a little tedious after a while. Still, at least they didn't expect me to shake hands or kiss them, which would, let's face it, have been difficult. The Dutch would also greet me, rather more earnestly but only once per group, with a spokesperson; they would almost always ask (probably to practise their French) where I was going. The Germans were usually paddling so fast that they only had time to nod briefly. The English? They would look the other way and hope I hadn't seen them.
We had a great time. And then it was good to get back to Ariège and its earthiness, its un-polishedness, its wildness, its greenness, its expansiveness, its simplicity, its people, its particular energy. Beware, if you come here. Ariège, if you 'get' it, is addictive.
Sunday, 7 June 2009
A spot of Saturday afternoon retail therapy ...
Once upon a time, I recall, Saturday afternoons used to involve hitting the High Street with a wad of notes and a determination to come home with carrier bags full of clothes I was never likely to wear more than once and shoes in which I could barely stagger from one side of the room to the other. Remember those days? Yes, I thought you did.
Although having wads of notes is now naught but a fond memory, yesterday afternoon I decided to hit what passes for the retail superstores in Saint Girons (no, don't laugh) for a spot of retail therapy. As an indication of how times have changed, however, it wasn't high fashion I was searching for. It was - and I can scarcely believe I'm writing this - a new pair of safety boots. Oh, how the mighty are fallen ..... but when your old ones are well and truly crevées, and you've dropped the thousandth piece of rock, or plaster, or tile, or brick, onto what once passed for your toes, well, what to do?
Amazingly - and I bet you can't do this in Clapham High Street - I walked straight in to one of our major shoe chains, La Halle, and found that not only did they sell safety boots in women's sizes, but also that I had a choice. Can you believe it? So here, gentle reader, is a sample of the latest fashion, Grillou style:
Aren't they lovely?
Although having wads of notes is now naught but a fond memory, yesterday afternoon I decided to hit what passes for the retail superstores in Saint Girons (no, don't laugh) for a spot of retail therapy. As an indication of how times have changed, however, it wasn't high fashion I was searching for. It was - and I can scarcely believe I'm writing this - a new pair of safety boots. Oh, how the mighty are fallen ..... but when your old ones are well and truly crevées, and you've dropped the thousandth piece of rock, or plaster, or tile, or brick, onto what once passed for your toes, well, what to do?
Amazingly - and I bet you can't do this in Clapham High Street - I walked straight in to one of our major shoe chains, La Halle, and found that not only did they sell safety boots in women's sizes, but also that I had a choice. Can you believe it? So here, gentle reader, is a sample of the latest fashion, Grillou style:
Aren't they lovely?
Wednesday, 18 February 2009
Who did you say I was?
Several years ago, travelling back from one of our winter jaunts to somewhere in the south, we stayed overnight in a little auberge in the Touraine. Freezing cold evening, tiny village in the middle of nowhere, red check tableclothes, lots of wood, simple room and good food. That kind of thing. After the statutory wander round the village, we repaired to the bar for an apéro, where we we were the only customers apart from a couple of red-faced, pastis-drinking, blue-overalled ouvriers. With my nose buried behind the local paper, I did what I always do: I listened in to their conversation. It went something like this.
"Aaah ouais"
Thirty seconds gap.
"Thursday today"
A minute's gap.
"Ouais"
Another minute's gap.
"That'll be Friday tomorrow, then".
A minute's gap.
"Mmmm".
Thirty seconds gap.
"Ouais".
Another minute's gap.
"Market day, Friday".
"Ouais".
A minute's gap.
"Ouais".
"That'll be Saturday, then, then".
Another minute's gap.
"Ah ouais".
A good two minutes' gap.
"Aaah ouais - the weekend, eh, voila, quoi ...".
I remember this conversation not only because of its sparkling wit and repartee, but because it actually took place on Wednesday, not on Thursday. Oh, how we smiled to ourselves, in that smug and patronising way that metropolitains have when faced with deep rurality ...
Except that now the boot is on the other foot, so to speak. This week I have been so convinced that Tuesday was Monday, and Wednesday was Tuesday, that I have missed an appointment and also failed miserably to contact someone when I promised to do so. I can excuse myself by saying that when your head is down a soil pipe all the days of the week look the same. But in truth, I suspect that living in La France Profonde has got to me at last.
Tuesday, 18 November 2008
Er ... who am I anyway?
Unlike others, we've encountered few of the frustrations with France's legendary bureaucracy that seem to be experienced by so many other EU immigrants. Reading any of the hundreds of 'how to do it' guides that have proliferated since the heady Amanda Lamb era, you'd be forgiven for thinking that only with (amongst a tonne of other things) eighteen copies of six generations' birth, marriage and death certificates would you be allowed to darken the country's doors at all, let alone open a bank account, buy a house, re-register your car, join the health system, pay taxes and social contributions, start a business or association, and so on and so on and so on. No, in the last eighteen months we've done all of those things and more, and for us it's been relatively plain sailing; indeed every fonctionnaire in the book has only been too willing to take money from us ... Apart from one thing, that is. My name.
Now I admit that the whole situation around my name is probably not normal. My legal name - that of my passport, driving licence and every other bit of identification I carry - is not the name that I was born with. So what, you might say. But I don't mean just my surname; I mean both my first name and my surname. Some years ago I changed both by statutory declaration: Kalba is part of a spiritual name given to me nearly 25 years ago by the spiritual master Osho (it means 'heart' in Arabic, although I am also reliably informed that with a slight difference in pronunciation it can also mean 'bitch'. Hmm. You choose ...); Meadows I took some time later just because I liked it, and because I wanted a name that was mine and not given to me by anyone else. The UK, bless its little cotton socks, took all this on board without a murmur. I only wish I could say the same about La Belle France.
The problem is that name changing just doesn't happen here, probably because you have to have the permission of the President to do it. So there's no precedent for a bizarre foreigner who turns up with a birth certificate in one name and a passport in another, with nothing to link the two other than the rather ordinary looking, battered piece of paper which is the only proof I have that I have Statutorily Declared. No wax seal, no Royal thumb print, no Prime Minister's blood ... nothing. Not even the inevitable dossier, without which no French person may exist. I've lost count of the number of French fonctionnaires who have gone into a major crise at the sight - or rather lack - of my documents. So far, though heaven knows how and not without endless explanation on my part - I've managed to avoid receiving any vital pieces of paper in my birth name. Today, though, a whole new saga has emerged.
Because UK and French tax years run differently and so we only had to declare for a part year (while being able to claim the allowances for a full one), we've managed to stay below the income threshold for paying any tax this year. This is great, because it lets us claim the French government's special heating allowance for non tax payers who have oil central heating. A year ago I might have felt a bit guilty about doing this; actually, at the moment I don't, because our income - which is still all in sterling until we finish the renovation and was not huge to begin with - has actually decreased by over 35% in 12 months as a result of the exchange rate and interest rate cuts, and I don't mind admitting that times are A Bit Tough. So today, I thought, I'd fill out the claim form. So far so easy, until I got to the bit where you have to provide your 'avis d'imposition' (tax statement) and your oil bill. "These two documents must obligatorily be in identical names!" screamed the form. Well yeeeesss ..... but no.
I ordered and paid for the oil, but - and I only noticed this this morning - our avis d'imposition is in John's name. Not mine. (Here, partners are taxed as a household, not as individuals). No problem, I thought, I'll just give them a ring and get it put right, friendly helpful tax office that they are. No, they are. Really. In spite of the bizarre conversation we had for over half an hour today. I have, it appears, committed a Sin. I (being the one who does all things business and financial) completed, and put my name first on, the tax declaration, thus pronouncing myself to be the 'chef de famille' - the head of household. Nothing wrong there, I thought. It seems, though, that there is - I, being a woman living with a man, can simply not be head of household, and therefore I should have put my name second. And moreover, putting my name first in such an erroneous and upstart-ish fashion means that I have lost the right this year for my name to appear on the tax statement at all, which is why it isn't there. If, apparently, I had put it second, thus demonstrating that I knew my place in the world, it could have appeared as a secondary name on the avis. Yes, I know you don't believe this story, but it's true. Honestly. My tax conseiller couldn't quite grasp why I was laughing uncontrollably (disbelief? hysteria?): for her, this was the Natural Order Of Things, and when I finally picked myself up off the floor and explained to her that I'd always been the main player at my tax office in the UK she couldn't grasp that either.
So now I have to go back to my oil supplier (who is - how can I put this - a couple of centimes short of a euro when it comes to admin) and ask for a revised bill in John's name so that I can get my heating allowance ... . I think I've said this before, but you really couldn't make it up, could you?
Now I admit that the whole situation around my name is probably not normal. My legal name - that of my passport, driving licence and every other bit of identification I carry - is not the name that I was born with. So what, you might say. But I don't mean just my surname; I mean both my first name and my surname. Some years ago I changed both by statutory declaration: Kalba is part of a spiritual name given to me nearly 25 years ago by the spiritual master Osho (it means 'heart' in Arabic, although I am also reliably informed that with a slight difference in pronunciation it can also mean 'bitch'. Hmm. You choose ...); Meadows I took some time later just because I liked it, and because I wanted a name that was mine and not given to me by anyone else. The UK, bless its little cotton socks, took all this on board without a murmur. I only wish I could say the same about La Belle France.
The problem is that name changing just doesn't happen here, probably because you have to have the permission of the President to do it. So there's no precedent for a bizarre foreigner who turns up with a birth certificate in one name and a passport in another, with nothing to link the two other than the rather ordinary looking, battered piece of paper which is the only proof I have that I have Statutorily Declared. No wax seal, no Royal thumb print, no Prime Minister's blood ... nothing. Not even the inevitable dossier, without which no French person may exist. I've lost count of the number of French fonctionnaires who have gone into a major crise at the sight - or rather lack - of my documents. So far, though heaven knows how and not without endless explanation on my part - I've managed to avoid receiving any vital pieces of paper in my birth name. Today, though, a whole new saga has emerged.
Because UK and French tax years run differently and so we only had to declare for a part year (while being able to claim the allowances for a full one), we've managed to stay below the income threshold for paying any tax this year. This is great, because it lets us claim the French government's special heating allowance for non tax payers who have oil central heating. A year ago I might have felt a bit guilty about doing this; actually, at the moment I don't, because our income - which is still all in sterling until we finish the renovation and was not huge to begin with - has actually decreased by over 35% in 12 months as a result of the exchange rate and interest rate cuts, and I don't mind admitting that times are A Bit Tough. So today, I thought, I'd fill out the claim form. So far so easy, until I got to the bit where you have to provide your 'avis d'imposition' (tax statement) and your oil bill. "These two documents must obligatorily be in identical names!" screamed the form. Well yeeeesss ..... but no.
I ordered and paid for the oil, but - and I only noticed this this morning - our avis d'imposition is in John's name. Not mine. (Here, partners are taxed as a household, not as individuals). No problem, I thought, I'll just give them a ring and get it put right, friendly helpful tax office that they are. No, they are. Really. In spite of the bizarre conversation we had for over half an hour today. I have, it appears, committed a Sin. I (being the one who does all things business and financial) completed, and put my name first on, the tax declaration, thus pronouncing myself to be the 'chef de famille' - the head of household. Nothing wrong there, I thought. It seems, though, that there is - I, being a woman living with a man, can simply not be head of household, and therefore I should have put my name second. And moreover, putting my name first in such an erroneous and upstart-ish fashion means that I have lost the right this year for my name to appear on the tax statement at all, which is why it isn't there. If, apparently, I had put it second, thus demonstrating that I knew my place in the world, it could have appeared as a secondary name on the avis. Yes, I know you don't believe this story, but it's true. Honestly. My tax conseiller couldn't quite grasp why I was laughing uncontrollably (disbelief? hysteria?): for her, this was the Natural Order Of Things, and when I finally picked myself up off the floor and explained to her that I'd always been the main player at my tax office in the UK she couldn't grasp that either.
So now I have to go back to my oil supplier (who is - how can I put this - a couple of centimes short of a euro when it comes to admin) and ask for a revised bill in John's name so that I can get my heating allowance ... . I think I've said this before, but you really couldn't make it up, could you?
Thursday, 23 October 2008
Interesting things to do with bread rolls
Just when you thought that there couldn't possibly be any more to say about the financial crisis, there was.
Last night I watched a documentary on Arte about the events of the last month, which was followed by the inevitable panel discussion: two French and two German economists slugging it out to see who could be most right. "S o o o o ...." began the (German) presenter, "What can you say about why this crisis has come to be?".
"Well, it's like this" explained one of the German economists. "When we were adolescents, we used to put petit pains down our swimming trunks to impress the girls. Our financial institutions have had their trunks full of bread rolls for a long time, but now the investors have pulled them down ..."
So now you know. And I'll never look at a German on the beach in quite the same way again.
Last night I watched a documentary on Arte about the events of the last month, which was followed by the inevitable panel discussion: two French and two German economists slugging it out to see who could be most right. "S o o o o ...." began the (German) presenter, "What can you say about why this crisis has come to be?".
"Well, it's like this" explained one of the German economists. "When we were adolescents, we used to put petit pains down our swimming trunks to impress the girls. Our financial institutions have had their trunks full of bread rolls for a long time, but now the investors have pulled them down ..."
So now you know. And I'll never look at a German on the beach in quite the same way again.
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