Ingenuity à la francais

Tiggy’s little playmate, Camille (the whippet), couldn’t play today because she has a poorly paw. Apparently she ran off after a deer in the forest and knowing how fast she can go from past experience I think the deer did well to get away. But she came back bleeding and now she has a bandage on her paw and has to stay on the lead. When we met up today I noticed that her ‘Mummy’ had covered the bandage with something to keep it from getting dirty.
‘Ah, she’s got a little plastic bag on her foot!’ says I.
‘It’s not a plastic bag,’ says her Mummy.
I looked closer. No, it wasn’t a plastic bag. It was a condom.

Oh, is that new dear…?

Nobby has been home from work for two hours now and hasn’t yet noticed that I have had my hair cut. Oh dear. Does he have any idea at all of the mortal peril he is in? Say your goodbyes now, friends and family, this guy is toast. I have to say though, I do have a slightly guilty feeling about the haircut as I was ‘seen to’ by the boss of the establishment, a young and attractive young man, who ran his fingers through my hair for a blissful 45 minutes this morning. Ooh, it was nice. And totally helped me get over the disconcerting feeling I had during the shampooing that the shampoo smelled just like Matey Bubble Bath.

Maybe he’s being cool because I didn’t manage to pick up his new trousers from the shop today. In theory I had all last week to do it, but , ahem, the car was available to him all weekend as well you know. I did make an attempt; I went all the way to town, paid 2 euros for parking only to find the store closed. It’s another French oddity, not as bad as refusing to sell stamps in the Post Office of course, but many places become a ghost town on Mondays and I am still not used to it after four years. Mostly because, as with French verbs, there are exceptions to the rule but you’ll never remember them all so you just have to try and be prepared to fall flat on your face. The toy shop is open on Mondays, but only after 2.30pm, the supermarkets are open all day as normal, but the menswear boutique we happened to find the perfect trousers in was shuttered and dark. Just my luck.

…The ladies wear shop next door was open though so I gave myself an early birthday present, which he won’t notice either because I will put it in the wardrobe for a few weeks so that when he sees it and says ‘When did you get that?’ I can truthfully say ‘What, this? oh ages ago dear.’

I have no idea why men have such problems keeping up with the rules. You have to comment on the hair but you might want to let the expensive cashmere cardy pass you by until the credit card’s paid off. Unless of course it’s a weekend when of course you absolutely have to tell her how wonderful it looks and so worth the money.

No, don’t try to follow it, boys, the rules will all be different tomorrow anyway. So stay awake!

Strange Country

Hi, yeah, I know it’s been weeks since I last sat down and blogged. I haven’t been hiding under a rock, I’ve just been chasing my tail as usual, but after what just happened the nearest boulder is looking rather attractive.

The bloke at the Post Office just refused to serve me. Was I making a scene? Was my child pulling all the cards off the display? No – he refused to serve me because I wanted to post something. ??!!*%&??!! Apparently there is now a machine for weighing and franking your parcels and the service desk does not expect to handle them any more. I am practically speechless. This has got to be the all time prize winner of screwiness I have encountered in France.

And I thought I’d seen it all with the woman in the fur coat in the forest. I haven’t seen her since but I do keep coming across blokes pissing up trees. I turn up for a nice relaxing walk with the dog, sometimes we even drive to other parts of the forest for a bit of variety and nine times out of ten there’s a car parked nearby with its engine running and a guy with his back to me, hands at six o’clock, pretending he’s examining the moss.

I know, when you gotta go, you gotta go and I admit that I have taken advantage myself sometimes when out with the children – that little voice that whines ‘Mummeeeee, I need a wee weeee!’ while you’re miles from the nearest loo can push even the calmest Yummy Mummy over the edge so it’s a relief to know that you can hold them over a drain or take them behind a tree without getting in trouble here. But some people really take the piss. Rose’s mother was once waiting for her outside the local shop, in the car, parked next to a tree. When she noticed that someone was beside her door, on the same side as the tree she looked up… and came face-to-todger with a chap taking a leak, blissfully unaware that he was in mortal peril from an outraged Hungarian Mummy inches from his family jewels. Somehow the shock was too much and she let it pass but thank goodness she doesn’t have a heart problem!

Anyway, speaking of mums, I had mine here all last week (and Dad) which is why I’ve been so slack about catching up here. During their stay we celebrated two birthdays, visited Versailles palace, hit the sales (girls only, Dad stayed home with the kids, sensible man), completed 14 school runs, tried the latest grocery shopping experience: the ‘Drive Thru Supermarket’ and planned, prepared and supervised a party for 14 seven-year-old girls. (My little girl is 7, can you Adam and Eve it?! No wonder I’ve started going grey.) So my poor parents have gone home for a rest, it really is no holiday coming to visit us! The birthday party went very well thanks to all their help, the kids are somewhat more civilised at this age, even if they do still knock apple juice over and smear crisps on the sofa. I think it was only the dog who really disgraced herself by digging under the fence and running off to play with the neighbour’s German shepherd. He doesn’t get out much that one as he’s purely a guard dog and he must have thought all his Christmases had come at once when she broke in. When Nobby finally managed to retrieve her I swear she had a guilty grin on her face.

Meanwhile Peony has given birth to a beautiful baby girl (in hospital I am pleased to report). I went over to meet her for the first time today, armed with cake for her Mum and siblings and lots of pinky-schminky gear for her. Poppet was fascinated and helped herself to several cuddles, mercifully without asking me if she can have a baby sister herself. (How can I put this gently? Er, NO!!! I’m sticking to dollies me.) Pickle was more interested in chasing the cat than admiring the baby, typical boy. I finaly heard the more accurate account of the birth than the ‘it was all over in 10 minutes, ah, she’s so beautiful!’ I got from the new Dad. Another typical boy; oh well, I doubt its much easier to watch than to actually do the labour.

Anyway, I have also recently been introduced to a fabulous drink available from IKEA. It’s called Glögg and I guess it’s the Swedish equivalent of mulled wine. Only with a LOT more cognac. So I here’s a Glöggy toast to Peony’s new baby, welcome to this strange country we live in!

Trackie-bottoms

Note to Nobby - when your beloved changes into her track-suit trousers at the start of the evening the most affable remark for a husband to make is not 'Are you feeling fat, dear?' as you did yesterday!

A far more suitable question would have been 'Is that more comfortable, dear, considering the deranged day you've had and your understandable craving to flake out on the sofa now?'
I know we housewives are supposed to be attending coffee mornings, lunches and facials all day but, as it was, I broke with the norm yesterday and had 6 kids and a heavily pregnant friend over for much of the day. Admittedly our kids are at an age where they are pretty good at occupying themselves (although it’s always best to check on them when they get too quiet in case they’re putting make-up on the dog or seeing how may toilet rolls you can fit down the loo.) I sometimes even get shooed away in a moody Kevin-the-teenager stylie when there are friends over that Mum might embarrass them in front of. So I managed to get quite a bit done in between the bottom-wiping and snack-provision – 2 loads of washing, 1 batch of flap-jacks, cleaning, emails, and of course some gossip with my mate Peony. Though I love having her here, she's due to give birth any day now and I've told her the towels that are spread out on the kitchen floor are there purely because of the dog's dirty feet but I'm not sure she believes me. Perhaps it's the nervous tick I've developed around her that's making her think I’m worried she’ll go into labour on me… The way that if she makes any sudden moves or dares to utter 'ooh' if the baby kicks her I'm jumping up yelling 'What?! What?! Is it starting?!!' Poor thing must be totally sick of me but I can't help it!

But kids are like buses - they will leave you standing in the cold for hours at a time then they all come at once. And in their case it will usually be when you've just picked up the phone or started cooking or parked yourself on the loo. I was uploading some photos to the web and all I needed was 5 more minutes to finish when all of a sudden one turns up in her coat and gloves demanding I get the bikes out of the shed, another desperately needed some old toilet rolls for an urgent creative project, one needed me to play Bingo with him because none of the other children wanted to and my son of course just wanted me off the computer so he could use it instead. Then the dog joins in by pawing at my legs and looking hopefully at the door. And then the phone rings.

Oh well, I mustn't grumble, Nobby did buy me dinner after all. I did have to pick him up from work, drive him and the kids to the shopping centre and take the kids to ToysRUs while he looked round the sales first… but at least I didn't have to cook. And I thanked him graciously by letting him put the knackered, ice-cream pumped children to bed by himself afterwards while I took the dog out; very generous of me I thought. So then the casual lounging gear was calling and what can you do?

I've donned it again this evening, actually, although Nobby's not here to comment. I made the mistake of going back to the sales during school time this morning and spent over 45 minutes in one shop, and not because I am crap at choosing either. I knew exactly what I wanted, having done a little reckie a few days ago. It took that long first trying to get to the racks then queuing to pay. I have never seen a bun-fight like it. These French ladies take bargain shopping to a whole new level. I arrived only 5 minutes after opening and the mob was already in there, elbows working overtime and pushchairs being used as battering rams. Rose and I have often discussed a certain bizarre phenomenon we keep encountering in French shops. You start browsing through a rack of stuff and as soon as you reach out to pull something off for a closer look there's a person there up your bum trying to grab the same item. Even if the whole place was almost empty of customers when you walked in. It's true, I promise, especially in women’s clothes shops. It even happened to Nobby and me together in ToysRUs before Xmas. We were in the bedroom section looking at duvet covers, nobody else in sight. I had a Batman cover in my hand and reached out to pick up the last Spiderman one on the shelf and just as my fingers brushed the cellophane a hand swooped in out of nowhere and grabbed it! I turned round to protest to find it was one of the shop assistants with some bloke customer in tow, who did manage to look suitably sheepish when he registered the shock on my face. The assistant, however, never said a word and if you think that was bad, imagine what it's like in the sales. Oh yes, total torture.

By the time my friend Daisy caught up with me in the queue this morning I was apparently red as a tomato from the scrum to secure one little boys coat at 40% off and a couple of pairs of trousers. Consequently I didn't visit any more shops after that, we took refuge in a café instead to cool down. I spent the afternoon with Peony, trying to get her dog to walk to heel using a Halti. I’m not sure who won in the end. He’s only 9 months old but he almost pulled me over a couple of times fighting to get the thing off while I resolutely walked on calling ‘Heel!’ in my best Barbara Woodhouse voice. He actually obeyed better once I removed it, clearly so relieved to get it off, so we let him chase Tiggy around as a reward.

So she’s flaked out and in her trackie bottoms too now, I think Nobby should try it.

But bagsy not me going to the sales to get him a pair.

Happy New Year!!

Well goodbye and good riddance to 2007, the year when my daughter broke her leg, my son got put on steroids and I found my first grey hair. Yes, call me Mrs Selfish but that last one was the final straw. Surely I am still too young? Surely being blonde should hide grey hair? WRONG. The little bugger was 3 times thicker than the rest of my hair and curly so it was actually sticking out at the side for all to see. What an insult; I always wanted curly hair.

Never mind, 2007 wasn't all bad. The kids learned to ski, I gave up the voluntary work and still persuaded Nobby to let me get a cleaner, we changed the jinxed Volvo and finally bought a dog. Not that the dog is always such a good friend - especially when I went into the playroom the other morning and found a steaming turd in the middle of the carpet. The entire ground floor of this house is tiled but when Tiggy gets caught short in the night she heads for the carpeted section upstairs. Thanks a bunch. Now I find I need a new carpet cleaner, my old Vax just won't shift the nasty stain. Who on earth puts cream carpets in a rental house?!

Anyway, I am fairly optimistic about 2008. After all, we will be moving on to pastures new at some point this year so I will be able to stop moaning about the French and start on some other culture instead. We just experienced a French New Year party this holiday season and I can tell you it was certainly different. I have never seen a meal strung out for 4 hours before, it was quite something, particularly when we effectively ended up having the main course and the pudding in different years! It was a far more civilised affair than a typical English do; we had drunken texts from several friends back home, one of whom was listening to his wife murdering 80's pop hits on the karaoke mike and figured his year could only get better...

Our Christmas holiday in England was equally lively. I hope Mum and Dad have managed to fix the hole I made in their Artex with the champagne cork. It just went off in my hand while I was holding it, honest guv (phnarr). My Mum surpassed herself with the Christmas fair, not only was it wonderful not having to shop for or cook any of the food but we had the full traditional spread that you just can't readily find this side of the Channel - christmas pud (there is no translation into French), parsnips (rarely sold here, they only grow them to feed the animals) and sprouts (hard to fathom why when Brussels is only round the corner!). Not to mention all the nibbles and naughty cakes that Waitrose has to offer. Yum. Big thanks to my Mum for a wonderful Christmas.

So here's to a great 2008 (ooh that rhymes). It's been a shaky start so far what with the poo incident, the boiler still being up the creek and Nobby trying to chop off his finger the other night - personally I think it was a rather drastic way of trying to get out of cooking the roast but I'll admit it did look pretty painful. But Torchwood is back on the telly and the kids are going back to school tomorrow so there's hope for improvement already.

Baaaaah Humbug

“T’was the week before Christmas, and all through the house, the appliances were breaking down, and Mummy became a total grouse…”

Is it just me or have we slipped into a parallel universe or something? Is The Doctor on the prowl, battling some unseen electronic foe on behalf of mankind while we only see the fall-out? If so, do you think he’ll lend me his Sonic Screwdriver for a bit? So far this week the phone spent a day in a huff, the boiler has been playing silly buggers, the oven has a cob on and to cap it all the coffee machine is having a tantrum. The toaster won’t toast, the hair-dryer won’t dry and the tumble dryer is making a very weird noise. Plus the dog has decided that ‘come here’ now means ‘run away in the opposite direction as fast as you can’. What’s going on?!!

All I have to say is BAH HUMBUG! I need a big injection of Christmas spirit, preferably single malt and no ice. On the positive side the presents are all bought and wrapped and hidden, but I haven’t actually packed any clothes for our trip yet because I have been running in circles trying to sort out the curve-balls and round up the dog. I was telling my Mum all about my woes on the phone yesterday, ringing off at one point to have yet another go at Pickle for trying to ride the dog like a horse (he just doesn’t get it) then calling back to carry on my rant. She was very tolerant; I think I even got away with all the swearing I was doing. I’m seeing her on Sunday so I’ll soon know. Her response though? She laughed. I guess she’s seen it all before – kids teasing the dog, dog chewing the fixtures and fittings, fixtures and fittings that break down just when everyone is leaving town for the holidays… I hope one day I can muster a giggle too. In the meantime, I am promised a very relaxing Christmas chez Ma & Pa and I can’t wait to get there – provided the newly mended car doesn’t join in the fun and games of course. We are dumping the dog with friends who have a boisterous puppy themselves whom Tiggy adores so I hope she behaves.

Meanwhile, I need to find a babysitter for the boiler because the plumber wasn’t able to fix it because it needs a new part. We seem to be plagued by boilers more than anything else, having had to fully replace the one in our own house in England after it drove our tenant insane for 3 years. The one in our French house has been playing up ever since we moved in, and it was brand new at that point. Who can forget the 300 euro water leak it produced on Christmas Eve two years ago? Well now it keeps losing pressure and switching itself off every night – just as we’re going through a cold spell with temperatures of minus 5 every night. Luckily I know the trick for getting it working again but it’s been Siberia in my slippers each morning for the past week and last thing I have then wanted to do is venture into the garage to talk nicely to the boiler. Thankfully the plumber only lives across the road and kindly excused the whopping errors in my French - just my luck that the verb for ‘to lower’ is only one letter different from the verb for ‘to shag’ so you can look a proper numpty if you pronounce it wrong… I think he got the message that rather than getting fruity with the thermostat each evening all I actually did was lower the temperature on it. While we wait for the spare part we need to keep the temperature up to avoid it switching off so now it’s more Sahara than Siberia; the dog is laying herself across the front door trying to catch a draft and I have been forced to reduce my customary 4 jumpers down to 1. But it could all go pear-shaped while we are away so that we return to a walk in freezer for a house with a bunch of frozen pipes. Oh the joy.

But I really must tell you about my great discovery last week. Having tolerated all the bureaucracy and crazy rules here for the last 3+ years - like giving way to the right on the roads, needing a medical certificate to sign-up to any sport and needing my passport as id before my kids can be left in the crèche at IKEA – I have found an area where the Brits have surpassed their French cousins by miles (or rather kilometres). It’s the Pet Travel Scheme. It sucks. I mentioned last time that I had to visit the vet the next day. Well, I came back spitting feathers, and not from a run-in with a low-flying budgerigar either. Here’s the thing. I want to take my dog to England now that she won’t have to wallow in quarantine for 6 months. I did some research on the internet and saw how many hoops you have to jump through in order to be allowed into other countries with a dog. Of course for the UK it’s not so much a few hoops as a full-on assault course, due to ‘our’ morbid terror of rabies (‘la rage’ as its called over here. Yup, the red tape will fill you with ‘rage’ I can tell you.) But it wasn’t until I went to see the vet that I found out that you also have to do it all in the right order otherwise the blokes at the border won’t let you into the country. I thought we were halfway there since Tiggy already has her tattoo and a rabies vaccination certificate. But the UK has rejected the tattoo as a valid form of id, only a microchip will do. So that effectively renders her rabies certificate invalid as well for the purposes of importing the dog. Ohmygod, I am starting to sound like a page from the DEFRA website. Someone stick a muzzle on me quick.

Long story short, we’ve had to start the process all over again: first the microchip, then the rabies jab, then the blood test (to check the rabies jab has produced enough antibodies) then a wait of SIX MONTHS before she can set foot (paws) on UK soil. And along the way you have to properly register the chip in order to get the Doggy Passport, which she also needs, but at this point the French put the boot in and won’t register the microchip unless she also has a tattoo! Merci beaucoup. You know, living here has added a whole new meaning to that phrase ‘mad as a box of frogs’… As of this afternoon I have indeed truly seen it all. Walking through the muddy forest earlier Tiggy and I came across a little old lady with her over-weight and bad-tempered Doberman. The lady was in full make-up... and a calf-length fur coat. Vive la France.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Just a quick word

I am determined to Blog a few lines before another fortnight slips by, especially as I have just included my Blog address in all my Christmas cards, telling my friends and rellies they can catch up on all our news here. So a hearty ‘Welcome!’ to any new readers; don’t fret, you will get all the gossip but only when I can disentangle my boy from the keyboard and myself from the daily turmoil and actually concentrate for half an hour. I am hopeful I may get away with it now as the kiddies are involved in a very interesting sounding game upstairs which has Pickle going by the name of Agatha and Poppet sporting shorts and a strappy top despite the inch of frost outside. At least they aren’t tormenting the dog who is currently flaked out on her bed after wolfing down a huge bone. I thought dogs were only supposed to gnaw on bones but ours likes to actually eat them - after crunching them into little pieces on my best rug of course. Then she buries what remains in the plant pots in the garden to marinade for a few days before digging them back up for another chew.

So, all is relatively calm at the moment, which makes a nice change from chasing my tail taking the kids to school, the dog to the park and the car to the garage. Yes, the brand new car is in for repair already and I am pootling about in a courtesy Fiesta. Oh the shame! Mind you, it’s a whole lot easier to park, I just hope they won’t mind all the baguette crumbs that Pickle has already smothered across the back seat. I should have known not to get a Ford, no matter how good the reports about the S-Max in What Car, with our luck we were always going to get a dud. Still, the garage didn’t sound too worried when I explained the problem. Luckily my French teacher was able to furnish me with an appropriate translation of ‘the bastard thing keeps cutting out!’

Meanwhile the whole household has gone Christmas crazy, spurred on by the children who are so excited that they had the tree up on 1st December and are ploughing their way through 4 advent calendars. We have a chart on the wall counting the ‘sleeps’ to the big day which they started crossing off in November. I didn’t get much of a look-in on the decorations this year; I was only required to trail some lights around the tree after Poppet had gone at it. It looks as though someone has vomited tinsel and baubles all over it, but we’re very proud she dressed it all herself. I’ve been busy in the kitchen instead. I’ve made mincemeat, shortbread, gingerbread and mince pies and Nobby made a Christmas cake. Someone stop me or I’ll be putting the sprouts on next. And we’re not even going to be here for it, we’re heading back to Blighty for a change. Wish me luck trying to hide all the parcels in the car. Mine still believe in Santa so they get a bit confused whenever presents turn up here in the post. They reckon the elves do all the shopping and wrapping – huh! if only! You have to sharpen your elbows before venturing to the shops these days. At least Nobby and I have agreed a system to make sure we get what we really want this year. We buy whatever it is we fancy and give it to the other one to wrap up for Christmas Day! I’m very pleased about it and Nobby is being exceptionally generous this year…

It has now taken me two days to write all this so I am going to publish and run before something else happens to interrupt me. The kids are both staying for lunch at school tomorrow and I am sooooo looking forward to a day on my own. Of course the dog needs to go to the vet now and I have a room full of presents to wrap but at least the soundtrack will be more Simply Red than simply shouting.

And… relax.