St Bloggie de Riviere

French Parenting

2012-01-22T16:59:00.000+01:00

Yet another mother living in Paris has jumped on the bandwagon of writing a book heaping praise on French women and making British women feel shitty in comparison. The latest in a long line of this treacherous sisterhood (which includes Helena wotsit wotsit) is Pamela Druckerman who has written a book called 'French Children don't Throw Food'. All I can say about the title is that she's never visited my eldest's collège where of course throwing food was frowned upon and punished but that didn't stop it from happening.

Our Pam is an American married to a Brit and they live in the rarefied hotspot of elitist Paris where the very top end of French society hangs out. One cannot say her entourage is exactly representative of le tout France. What these women are, compared it seems to the your average Brit, is confident. French mothers are confident about everything British woman cower and feel miserable about: their size, their looks, the way they give birth, the way they bring up their children, breastfeeding, being a mother, being a wife and everything in between except being a friend to their girlfriends. British women never feel inferior about their girl-friendships.

British women needed another book telling us how to raise our kids like a hole in the head, and holding the French up as shining examples of perfection is pretty laughable. If, for example, their children are such paragons of good behaviour, why are the child psychiatrist waiting rooms filled to standing room only with desperate parents dangling on a lengthy waiting list?

If you think about it, perfect French women books are strangely at odds with the other book bandwagon, the Peter Mayle style moving to France and grappling with the forces of ye olde French peasant. How many times have we heard about the recalcitrant plumber, the wily builder, salt of the earth types, taciturn but once you've tamed the beast, your friend for life? Do these men have French mothers who sound like the sort of ones our Pam meets and greets?

When it comes to women, it seems that journalists feel perfectly entitled to lump 50% of the population into one upper social type, the perfect, slim, manicured, elegant French lady. Whatever happened to the peasant farmer's wife in her nylon pinny, aubergine-dyed masculine-cut hair and comfy old booties? She's not usually a chain-smoking coffee junkie, but a solidly built eater of good old stodgy filling nosh.

The mums I see at my sons' schools often look as haggard as any other working mum, and their kids a variety of good and badly behaved. Children might not be brought up as little emperors here (a disastrous method!) but their mothers are often overly protective, mollycoddling them and preventing them from potentially hurting themselves. One of the commonest words you hear mothers of young children cry is 'ATTENTION!'. No wonder they become risk-averse and seek the comfort of life as a fonctionnaire.

Many bourgeois parents try to force their kids into a straight-jacket of robotic mini me's, with hours of school work every night, obsessive attention to school marks, and no say in what they wear. Then you get rebellious types who break away and become successful entrepreneurs. I was despairing of how lazy my son is and the head of a huge business company told me not to worry because the laziest boys made the most creative businessmen. He himself had been a terror. I await to see the results of his wisdom... but in the meantime, my son has decided he needs to get working (phew!).

I think what the French do well is rely on common sense when bringing up their kids, and perhaps the support of mothers, sisters, aunts, and grandmothers, rather than gimmicky books by childless gurus. Why British women are so attracted to bizarre methods of childrearing rather than relying on common sense and a sensible book of essential information is a mystery. But whatever the method chosen rest assured that a mother's place is in the wrong, and our parents fuck us up whatever their nationality.

Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
  They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
  And add some extra, just for you.

Liebster Blog Award

2012-01-15T12:56:00.000+01:00

Back in December, Trish at Mum's Gone To was kind enough to hand out a Liebster award which is given to bloggers with less than 200 followers. I seem to remember Wylye Girl at River Cottage Diaries nominated me for it too several months ago but I never got round to posting about it (as there was no gun against my head...).

Trish and her family are great travellers. If you're something of an armchair traveller, like me, do pop on over because she does all the hard work organising, paying, packing and travelling, and all you have to do is sit in your comfy chair in front of the computer and read her entertaining and well-written reports on travelling joys and strife. Like me, she has an ado son, and I particularly enjoy her stories of life with an ado because they ring so true.

Wylye Girl hasn't posted in a while, I think she's been moonlighting at Huffington Post, but when she does, it's always interesting, sometimes good for a laugh (like her nominations for Rugby World Cup Donald Trump Bad Hair Award) and well written.

To get back to Liebster, I'll copy the bit from Trish's blog about a translation : "Google translate tells me Liebster means dear, sweet, endearing, lovely". Not an obvious description of my blog I'd have thought, but my followers and readers definitely are! These are the stipulations upon receipt:

1. Thank the giver and link back to the blogger who gave it to you.
2. Reveal your 5 blogger picks and let them know by leaving a comment on their blog.
3. Copy and paste the award on your blog.
4. Hope that the people you have sent the award to will forward it to their favourite bloggers

So here are my five blogger picks:
1. Pointman's. Pointman started blogging because he "hated the effect the environmental movement was having on the developing world. A thinly veiled political movement, which is perceived as simply a fashionable lifestyle choice in the developed world, is causing death and misery amongst the eighty percent of humanity not fortunate enough to live well above the poverty line." Well worth a read, and can link you to Tallbloke who was recently raided by 6 policemen because of a comment was left by the Climategate leaker (FOIA) on Tallbloke’s blog giving the location of the latest Climategate archive of emails for download. I suppose you get two for the price of one here, but I don't know what sort of a following Tallboy has, so can't nominate him separately.

2. Adventures of a Middle-Aged Matron. Anna Tims, as Mammasaurus is a free-lance journalist and a part-time staff feature writer on The Guardian, and blogs about family life as the wife of a vicar and mother of two children. You can read about, for example, Victoria, "the well-spoken homeless woman who once lived on the vicarage doorstep" where "no passing male was denied a slot in her sleeping bag" and other stories.

3. Mills and Boon Wannabe. This is a hugely entertaining blog written by Oliver Tims and his sister. They decided they should "try to write a romance novel according to the guidelines published by Mills & Boon". They do it blind, too, not discussing plot or characters as they go along which makes it quite a challenge for them. Imagine writing about simmering desire with your sibling!

4. Curry Queen. She started a blog to "fool herself that someone, anyone is listening to her. Given that her offspring describe anything she says as "like, white noise, innit?" She is "pathetically grateful for a more attentive audience". Recent hilarious quote from her husband, known as the Shah, "To you I'm just a human piñata, aren't I?" Definitely deserving of a wider attentive audience!

5. Older Single Mum. Older Single Mum says of herself "I am in my forties, with two gorgeous and hilarious boys aged 6 and 2. We live on the South coast of England, happily, without their once famous International Sportsman of a father, who I asked to leave, for reasons which will become apparent". She has recently started a series of guest blogs by other single mums (including me!) in an attempt to change the perception of the single mum as a teenage scrounger living on welfare. She's had some amazing women writing their stories and if they don't make blinkered Daily Mail-type readers think again, then there's absolutely no hope! :)

There we are, I hope you take a look at my suggested blogs, all different, all interesting and extremely well written.

OMG it's the Sales!

2012-01-11T17:39:00.000+01:00

A lot of France has gone crazy today. It's the first day of the sales and I imagine the centre of Montpellier is a heaving river of humanity fighting like crazy over bargain impractical shoes and must-have handbags. Naturally I have avoided it like the plague, but I have done my bit to participate, oh yes. On the internet of course.

I popped into Zalando.fr and got my youngest to choose some much needed tee shirts, a pair of shoes and a sweat shirt. He likes them big these days so they should last a while. I thought €7 for a Benetton tee shirt pretty reasonable. They'll be delivered down the road so I don't even have to exert myself to detour much, just a quick collection on my way home from work.

That's the way I like to go shopping. Carrouf was murder this afternoon. I was in there to do my weekly food shop and the world and her wailing baby were in there too poring over the silicon cake shapes and smelly candles. I passed by all the tempting racks, but stopped at one which had cosy polaire sports pullies for €15 or €10 for men (no zip). I didn't like the women's ones and didn't want a jacket with zip anyway, and there were no men's size S, so that saved me €10.

In my joy, I bought a packet of smoked trout to go with the blinis in the fridge, and some proper smoked haddock to make a kedgeree. Bang went the €10, still at least my stomach will be happy, and I can wear the cosy sports pully I already have. Another would be nice but it would just be a reminder to do more sport when the other one is in the wash... and I don't need any reminders like that, thanks!

I had to wait for ages at the fish counter. Some woman was there buying up crab legs, Madagascan prawns at €24.90/kg and oysters. "Invite me!" I beamed over in thought waves. She wilfully ignored me and set her posh woman glasses on her nose - you know the ones, they have graded coloured lenses and gold somewhere around the rims, and probably a logo such as DG on the arms. They protect heavily-made up eyes and the odd bag...

I had to wait for ages at the till too. A very small woman in front of my was buying up the organic food aisle and her trolley was floor to ceiling in natural brown packets with green writing. You can't get big sizes in organic packages so all her purchases were small which meant there were loads. I dread to think how much her bill came to, must have been at least €300.

When I got in the car I realised I hadn't bought the tomatoes necessary for the kedgeree and, come to think of it, the rice either. This means I'll have to go down the road and support the local mini market with its over-priced goods and dodgy veg, or go to the posh greengrocer and faint at the cost of the tomatoes. Actually I think the best idea is to wait until my TWDB says he's going shopping and ask him to get them for me. Thankfully there's no rush with smoked haddock.

The bread machine has just pinged telling me the dough is ready to be shaped and chucked in the old non-stick (non-silicon) bread tin and baked in the (amazingly clean since it was pyrolysed yesterday) oven, which means I can get on and make the beef stew in the slow cooker. It needs the same plug as the bread machine and as I wasn't forward thinking enough to get a double plug (or I've lost it...) I've had to wait for one to finish. Looks like it'll be dinner tomorrow now though or we'll be eating at bed time.

When I've done that I'm going to spark myself up with some XBox Dance Central, promise... My youngest son is here, he can help set it up and do it with me, that'll be good for a laugh.

Bucket Listing Bollocks

2011-12-31T10:43:00.000+01:00

This is the time of year when we get tedious reviews of the past year's events and predictions as to what the next year will bring. It also brings with it lists of 'things you should do/see/read/eat before you die' otherwise known as bucket lists.

I sometimes get asked if I have a bucket list, to which I answer an emphatic NO! Bucket lists are full of guilt and frustration, hypocritical self-affirmation and self-delusion. What do you put on them? Things which will make you look good when asked usually. Would you put "Watch 'Arthur' (with Dudley Moore, not that twat Brand) another 27 times"? Probably not. It might be on your private list, but your public list will contain "Understand 'The Killing' in the original Swedish (or is it Danish)" (or some such twaddle).

On the 1001 things I must read before I die list, would you admit to putting 'A daily diet of Littlejohn'? Or rather 'The complete collection of Dickens'? Once you've finished your list, do you then plunge into it just in case your Maker claims you earlier than expected? You've probably got such a load of depressing cultural classics on there you're more likely to turn to 'How to be a woman' by Caitlin Moran for a good laugh than wade through Homer's 'The Iliad' even it is worthy of study.

Bucket lists are sources of frustration. They sit there glaring at you from the back of your mind, a reminder of your self-delusion; and how many of us need that sort of self-induced hassle? Life is tiresome enough remembering to open one's bank statement, keeping tabs on the kids' activities/jabs/school work and tidying up before the cleaner comes without being prodded by one's better self to tick off items on the list of self-improvement.

I can just see it. Being run over by a bus and mouthing at the ambulance team "Save me, I'm only half way through 'War and Peace' and can't go until I tick it off my bucket list!" Or arriving grumpily at the Pearly Gates and having an argument with St Peter about a few days' respite to finish off the last 416 pages before entering forever-more into the arms of Paradise. In fact there's probably a library of worthy books and a comfy chair just outside so that bucket listers can finish off the read they were whipped away from so unexpectedly.

I don't have a list of 100 places I'd like to see before I die either. As I can never decide, and keep changing my mind anyway, my list would be defunct before I'd even finished it. I could never afford to do all the travelling, so I really don't see the point in going to all that effort. Armchair travel has distinct advantages, the main one being you don't actually have to travel anywhere. No passports, tickets, queues, being treated like cattle, sickness, getting lost, being delayed, missing connections, airline food, certain death from deep vein thrombosis, getting bitten, mugged, or sunburnt, or the worst - deciding you'd made a mistake and it wasn't worth being on your list in the first place.

No, bucket lists are definitely a Bad Idea, along the lines of New Year resolutions which you know will be abandoned before Jan 14, so why bother? I prefer a more wishy washy dreaming, a sort of 'well I'd like to finish this project if I can' or 'I hope this project which is out of my hands but is relevant to me this year gets off the ground'. Then if it doesn't happen, it doesn't really matter because it was all concentrated in the realm of the nebulous anyway, one's amour propre has not been attacked with failure, and you can just pass on to something else without guilt or frustration, like choosing from an untouched box of your favourite choccies.

Happy New Year everyone. I wish you health and contentment for 2012.

Christmas 2011

2011-12-28T17:46:00.000+01:00

Well here I am back from Blighty, the Christmas marathon behind me, the New Year gentle stroll to come. I will be celebrating NY with my TWDB only - no flashy parties for us with boozy bonhomie at midnight, we prefer to spend it à deux, at home - no driving, no fear of being stopped, no having to stop over at someone else's.

Christmas was busy. I took the boys to London to the Science Museum where they had a good go on all the hands-on activities in the Launch Pad, watched the 4D film on Apollo, and searched high and low for a cheap goodie in the shop. I had wanted to see the West End lights, but chickened out of the crowds so we went to Romford instead and searched high and low for some nifty clothes for my youngest, to no avail. Next was crap, so was H&M, as was BHS. Primark had nothing except an LA (Dodgers) jacket in men's size XS (which fit - there must be some very small men out there, my son is 10!). We usually stock up on original clothes for the boys, but it was very disappointing. The tee-shirts had stupid ugly transfers, or stripes, and the jeans just looked ragged. Not my son's style at all.

We went to see Dotty Dad, a sorry sight if ever there was one. Alzheimer's has ravaged practically everything leaving a bent, shuffling old man who gazes into the middle distance, closes his eyes if things get too much and has horrific fits of aggression if anyone gets in his way. Occasionally his eyes focus on something, and he may smile, though at what we don't know. We found him the first time sitting with a carer and drinking beer. He used to hate beer, cheese, vegetables; now he eats and drinks everything. We popped in on Christmas morning as he was about to have his lunch. I will say this for the care home - they do a marvellous job. The carers are kind, and the lunch looked very appetising. On our first visit, they were having a Christmas party and a young woman singer was entertaining everyone with some old favourites to a karaoke machine. She came up to my dad and stroked his hand while she sang to him, got some of the more mobile residents to get up and dance, and others to sing along. Kindness in a care home is so important.

We saw all the family including my youngest niece who is nearly 2 and such a sweetie. She was desperate to join in the activities of her 4 older cousins, sit at their table and rush about with them. A very determined young lady, that one. She didn't even flinch at the party poppers and gladly wore her cracker crown taped to her size.

My mother cooked a delicious Christmas lunch, with tasty leftovers on Boxing Day. We had one of Heston's glacé mandarin Christmas puds from Waitrose. It was okay, but I think I prefer the ones from Harrod's. They seem boozier, and I love the heavy traditional pud. Still, it's good to try out other puds. I brought back the leftovers of the M&S one we had on Boxing Day, and I have a Duchy Originals still to tuck into this weekend. I love Christmas pud! We even had a Christmas pud cheesecake from M&S. It was amazing - the right taste but in a cheesecake and lovely and light. Delicious!

I hope you all had the Christmas that you wanted whether en famille, à deux or with friends. Mine was great, what with being back with the family and in the UK, and surrounded by so many decorations there wasn't an inch of space uncovered. A veritable Christmas wonderland!

Virtual Indulgence

2011-12-12T22:45:00.000+01:00

(Sponsored post)

Christmas is coming,

The pressie list is growing

Where can I find

Ideas worth a-flowing?

Choice is important

And originality

Take a seat and save your feet

On NotOnTheHighStreet.com

Who?

Don't worry, I hadn't heard of them either until a couple of weeks ago when a nice lady called Ali wrote to me and told me they were operating an original approach to marketing by writing to bloggers. As you know, I never write sponsored posts as I never get asked, but if I did (which I don't), I would write an honest and candid review, which a sponsor may well not like.

So when Ali wrote back to me and said that she would offer me three hundred virtual pounds to spend on friends and family to write about my choice of presents, and thus enter a competition to win my selection and bring festive joy to one and all, how could I refuse?

Mooching virtually round the NotOnTheHighStreet.com store is not a tough experience, believe me, unlike pounding the actual high street, or worse, a shopping mall. To start with, it's easy on the feet and so one is not hampered by pain-induced bad temper as one dips in and out of the different sections.

I found something for my mother almost immediately. These sandcastle bowls will inspire happy thoughts of Mumbles and summer holidays with us kids and grandchildren. They cost £25 each, so all three come to £75.

Next, my nieces. They come in a range of ages from 18 months to 14. My eldest niece is the trickiest as her attention is usually locked into her phone or laptop, but even busy young ladies have to eat, and there's nothing better than baking and eating your own cake. I would give her this extremely tempting cake kit, complete with little stars at £40.

For her 10-yr old sister, another creative present, one which will provide hours of activity and something to show at the end of it - a beginner's knitting kit, £22.50.

I'm torn between ideas for my youngest niece, aged 18 months. I would not be popular if I bought her this:

so I'm really tempted to buy here this walker truck, which is similar to one I had at her age and costs £56. She would be able to take her toys for a walk and her teddies for a picnic. I would have loved this at her age because of the jaunty truck look with space for a tiny teddy to sit in the cabin and drive.

For my older brother, I remember his record collection thumping out of his bedroom making it pointless that I buy my own causing a cacophony in the house and the ire of our parents. I feel these record cover frames are a suitable gift to take him back to those heady days when Blondie, Backstreet Boys, Madness etc. were the centre of his world...

and, more recently, Doris Day (*snigger*). A set of 4 7" frames costs £25.50.

My sister-in-law loves jewellery, and I think she would appreciate this fair trade necklace at £25. I certainly love the classy colours and chunky look of this necklace which is hand made in Kenya.

And last but not least, a hamper to pamper my younger brother and his partner, much needed what with living with a lively toddler and another on the way.

This is the Dolce Vita hamper, at £55 which includes such yummies as:

2007 montepulciano 'frentano', cantina sociale frentana, abruzzo 75cl
silver medal balsamic vinegar, giuseppe giusti 250ml
nudo extra virgin olive oil 250ml
italian honey with white truffle
organic coffee hazelnut chocolate spread 200g
soft amaretti biscuits 200g
mini whisk tag
'eating' quotation postcard

They love Italy, so this is particularly appropriate.

With a grand total of £299 spent (I think), I hope they would like their presents. It's certainly been a lot of fun sifting through to find them.

Moonlighting

2011-12-09T18:18:00.001+01:00

You'll never guess what... I'm moonlighting, that's what. Incredibly, since October 2005 (when I wrote my first ever blog post) no one has EVER asked me to write a guest post. Perhaps not that incredibly since I never ask people to guest for me either, and in this happy wittering part of the blogosphere reciprocity is Pretty Important.

Actually quite a lot of the aspects of blogging are pretty important if you take them seriously, and a lot of people do, as I discovered on Lynn's post over on All Fooked Up. Read and be stunned.

But I digress. I do not have an over-inflated view of my blog, so I was much flattered and honoured to be asked to guest post on the lovely Anya's blog, Older Single Mum. I first came across her writing after reading the comments she wrote on Plankton's blog. Not many people link to their blog so when I saw that Anya had, I dashed over and read about her trials and tribulations as an older single mum, with a rather delectable lodger.

Of course, I identified with her like mad, apart from the delectable lodger, not least because her ex-h stories struck a familiar note, and so I stayed, added her to my Follow list and carried on enjoying her writing.

Then she decided to start a series of blog posts on older single mums to try and redress the image that single mums have of being sluttish drop-outs intent only on bagging a council flat and having a career on benefits. We come in many sizes, shapes and forms, ages, financial statuses and backgrounds. Many of us never intended to end up as a single mum, but circumstances have forced us into this state (which is not without its advantages...), and so we find ourselves thus at an age when potential partners are scarce and easily frightened at the sight of the sofa under permanent occupation by an adolescent male or by a wailing toddler (and who can blame them?).

So, along with the troubles of bringing up one's offspring, life is even harder for the older single mum in search of a partner, and if you want an idea of exactly how un-easy it is, just read Plankton's blog and join in the collective wail.

I have no worries on the partner front, but being a single mum is still hard work. I did manage to paint a balanced view over on Older Single Mum though, so do pop over and discover what I believe to be the single most annoying part of being a single mum, plus a couple of the best bits too. Let me know if you agree with me if you are one too.

Looking back at my first ever post

2011-12-01T08:03:00.000+01:00

Over in the wilds that make up Mammasaurus' domain, there is a blog hop link-up to post our first ever blog post.

Looking back at mine, I realise that it was a long time ago - how time flies - and of course, it was undoubted drivel. I'm not sure much has changed on that score, mind but I've managed to keep on drivelling since then, on a plethora of subjects, mostly inane, personal and accompanied by an amusing cartoon. At that time, I had just escaped my old life and was starting my new life almost divorced, in a rented house, with the boys then aged 4 and 9. It meant true freedom for the first time ever and I loved it, even if I had no money to spare. My decisions were not questioned or vetoed, my time was my own, and my salary was for my use only. Heady stuff.

The timing of this linky is appreciated because I'm in an early Winter slump and am finding it difficult to dredge up much enthusiasm to write about anything, especially when my life centres around going to work, coming home, cooking, crashing out knackered, worrying about Christmas presents and my cunning plan, and going to bed, interspersed with taxi duties, nagging my kids about homework/cleaning their rooms/putting their dishes in the dishwasher/clothes in the dirty linen basket/coming off the XBox and removing bikes and kickback scooters from the front hall where they have to be walked round and over to get to the fridge/front door/washing machine. Fascinating, eh?

This weekend they are going to see their dad, so taxi duties will be replaced by... a void. I have writing work to do, but can I be arsed to do it? Maybe if it's raining, there's nothing on tele and no one to talk to... (unlikely, on Twitter, the world's all time greatest invention for the confirmed time-waster). I'm resisting the urge to eat unsuitable food by not buying it but that is what I want to do - is it my body trying to lay down reserves for the 'long hard winter'? If so, it's forgotten I live in the 21st century and have electric heating and an electric bed warmer. There's nothing so delicious as pushing your tootsies down into warmth between the sheets instead of an Arctic hole, and you don't even need a man to provide it (and they tend to keep their warmth to themselves anyway and then start snoring).

So, without further ado, here is my first EVER blog post, written on October 4, 2005.

Funnily enough I used to write a diary as a girl - the usual boring stuff of going to school, what I ate, recorder class, what my friend said to me and I said to her... All a gripping and fascinating insight into the life of a 10yr-old girl in the early 70s (!).
Now, some 30 years later I can write about going to work, what I ate, taking my boys to swimming and violin classes, what my lover said to me and I said to him (yes, definitely heterosexual here...).
All a totally self-indulgent and somewhat futile occupation, but who cares? That's the wonder of the internet where you CAN be self-indulgent and go public about it! The ideal tool of the modern person. Public self-indulgence without censure. It's like going to the psychoanalyst and talking about yourself for half an hour, and s/he is paid to listen to you burbling on and on. Here, I can write whatever drivel I like (no, I have no illusions) and send it off into cyberspace to be read by someone or no one; it really doesn't matter.
The enjoyable bit is the self-expression, ordering thoughts, ranting, bragging and commenting. Everyone should do it! It's so therapeutic, and so much cheaper than a shrink!
There, I've convinced myself as to the worthiness of writing here. I can stop here with the peace of mind that I am not contributing to the axis of wasters. No, indeed, I am contributing to the sum of human knowledge (the lesser bits - those bits that come under the umbrella of social anthropology ). Ahhh.

I did warn you...

Comfort Food Blog Hop

2011-11-21T17:31:00.000+01:00

I'm incredibly distracted at the moment. My head is whirl of potential future projects if certain things come off, and I even find myself having snippy words with that slime ball Piers Morgan in an interview on my new situation. No, I have no idea why either, but it kept me busy during my 2.5km walk last Sunday morning on the parcours de santé which I've finally found at Grammont. Sometimes my head gets a will of its own and just goes off into realms of fantasy without permission and which totally bog down other functions.

It's not the first time my head has taken unilateral action, but I'm now older and wiser and can come down gently. On previous occasions it was almost painful focusing back on reality.

One reality that I can focus on happily, however is food, and in response to LittleMe's Blog Hop on my top five comfort food, here is my list:
1. Roast chicken with veg and roast spuds. Chicken is the ultimate comfort food as it's unchallenging in taste, but incredibly versatile. I love mine with crunchy skin which I eat, careless of the consequences. My mother makes a mean roast chicken and her roast spuds are to die for. I've been told mine are pretty yummy too - I like them cooked to the crunchy far end of the golden spectrum, going as far as some burnt bits here and there.

2. Pancakes. There's nothing like sinking your teeth into a soft warm pancake with lemon and sugar. I just adore the combination of flavours and textures - the crunchy sugar, the squidgy pancake and the liquid lemon. I don't reserve them for pancake day, but have them several times a year. My boys love them too and always cheer when they smell the delectable aroma of cooking pancake.

3. Sausage and mash. With British sausages, natch. French ones don't really do it for me, they don't have the cultural flavour clout that a good old Sainsbury's chipolata has. Fried, with fried onion, bright green peas and a creamy mash, and served with ketchup, there's nothing like it for warming the cockles.

4. Kedgeree. Kedgeree comes in all different recipes, but my favourite is the one my mother cooks. Smoked haddock boiled in milk, rice, boiled egg, tomato, lots of parsley. You have to fry the cooked rice in butter to get it a lovely pale yellow, which with the addition of egg yolk becomes a glorious golden colour setting off the red of the tomato and green of the parsley perfectly. Kedgeree has acquired cult status in our house. It is the lunch cooked before a wedding - light but sustaining, and my brothers and I all had it before getting married. My youngest son adores it, so it'll be in good hands.

5. Boiled ham and parsley sauce. Another dish from my childhood that I replicate with difficulty here due to the problems of sourcing the right cut of meat. All I can find is 'palette' which is a bit of the shoulder, and maybe a tiny end of the leg. My mother gets a superb hunk, with skin, boils it, then scores the skin, pricks it with cloves and rubs over brown sugar then pops it in the oven to crunch up. Served with mash and peas, it's utterly delectable in a creamy, savoury with sweet bite sort of way.

As you can see, my comfort food is heavily influenced by my childhood memories. There isn't one French dish in there. The only one that might get a look in is blanquette de veau which my mother also makes. All that talk of pancakes has given me cravings, but I only have one egg left so tonight it'll have to the poor relation of sausage and mash - Toulouse sausage and mash. Or maybe a sausage casserole...

Nice Yachts and More Boats

2011-11-09T17:51:00.001+01:00

I don't often do posts with lots of photos in them, but the other weekend I spent a lot of time (it seemed) on the port of Nice, and so I got snapping with my non-professional camera.

We arrived early evening in time for an apero at the Hotel Negresco in the wood-panelled bar that resembled a pub but somehow didn't, with its soaring ceiling and glorious listed design.

The aperos were a shocking price - €18 for a cocktail, but hey, we don't do this often, so I had a Negroni (Campari, Martini and gin). It must be decades since I had Campari, probably 2 at least. It came with a nifty selection of nibbles that were very original, including a special Niçoise tapenade made with special olives.

The next morning, while my TWDB was doing his usual Sunday lie-in thing, I got up and went out in search of breakfast. I bought a couple of very average croissants and a litre of fruit juice, and went to sit on the port in the sun with my Kindle.


View over breakfast

After being recalled to base, I went back to the port for a nice walk, this time with my TWDB. We saw big yachts with a mini-me,

the large one so big it dwarfed the buildings opposite.

On the other side of the port was a colourful collection of fishing boats.

complete with old sea dog at work.

Some of the little boats had little masts

and some didn't

and thus gave an uninterrupted view across the port to the middle-sized yachts and mega yachts beyond.

Some boats looked like they worked very hard

while others looked like they never left port.

My TWDB told me many of these super yachts are bought as floating capital. If things get sticky, instructions are sent to the crew to make for international waters where the yacht cannot be seized. Worth tens of millions of euros, the yachts are a smart way of safe-guarding capital when the tax man comes knocking to avoid those awkward questions...

Lady and Miss Christine

Does that say Creek or Greek...?

If you've got the the smart yacht, you've got to have the smart car too, how about a Bentley with smart red leather interior?

While I was strolling along admiring the views, I was not concentrating on the ground. Unfortunately some bloody mutt had done a poo and its even bloodier owner had not cleared it up, so I ended up treading in it. Cue much swearing and bad temper, all aimed at irresponsible dog owners and their sodding mutts. I then had to find a way to clean up. I dragged my shoe along the ground, I dipped it into the water, and even went so far as to wipe my shoe on a handy mat...

Note handy mat

Thank you kindly Shandor owner for the handy mat. Sorry if it's a bit pongy now...

From the port, we went up in the lift to the castle grounds at the top of the cliff and looked out over the higgledy piggledy old Niçois rooftops

Rooftops of old Nice

and the glorious curve of the bay busy with people enjoying the unseasonally fine weather. Just look at that blue!

We left on Sunday afternoon after soaking up the sun and lunch on the port. Amazingly we had glorious weather. This is completely normal because my TWDB has sold his flat in Nice. When he had it, our weekends were invariably ruined by 'exceptional' dodgy weather.

In the sunshine, it's just stunning.

A Cunning Plan

2011-11-02T17:53:00.000+01:00

I absolutely loathe the four months leading up to the end of the year. Not because I don't like Autumn, the cooling of the days (normally, when you don't have an incineratingly hot Indian Summer), the change of vegetables, different clothes, or the transition from a refreshing rosé to hearty red. No, it's because it costs an absolute friggin' fortune and is one long struggle from beginning to end.

First, one is recovering from being on holiday, then comes La Rentrée, with clothes, shoes, school materials, out-of-school activities, equipment for said activities and an increase in the rent. Happy September! Added to the fun is my eldest son's birthday (and mine...). Then comes October with yet more clothes and shoes seeing as my youngest gets through his at roughly a pair per month, surprise bills, visit from Pierrette, and buying train tickets to go back to the UK at Christmas. Ouch!

November arrives with the bill for the school canteen and another bill for the rubbish disposal tax that we renters have to pay off the owner's taxe Foncière. Plus coats. One can no longer put off buying winter coats for the boys (and more shoes) especially as we had torrential rain yesterday and 4°C morning temperatures a few days ago.

And then it's effing Christmas! WAAAAAH! By which time I'm on my financial knees and picking the scabby bits off by way of evening entertainment. It's not like I don't have a decent job, either, or a modest but reasonable income, but there's too much all at once and it's just a nightmare trying to keep one's nose above the financial Plimsoll line.

But, I hear you cry, what about your writing?! Indeed, good question. My writing is on-going and should, one day, result in something coming in, but when... In other words, I'm doing my best, we are all doing our best, and will be rewarded sometime, hopefully before we get to heaven.

So that's two baskets into which I put my income eggs, but one can never have too many baskets (at my level, anyway...) so I was delighted to learn about a new project that's going to be launched soon. A friend contacted me about it a few weeks ago, and I decided it would be a cunning plan to diversify my eggs a wee bit more. While I hummed and haaahed, I investigated the info that she sent me and finally took the plunge yesterday.

It's all based on an internet home page that pays you, and anyone you send it to, and anyone they send it to, and anyone they send it to, and so on. Resulting in a delightful cascade of tinkling cash that works its way back to you from everyone in your network who uses chooses to change their home page from Google, for example, which pays you nothing, to this new one, which pays you something. What's not to like?

All you do is surf, study, research, muck about as usual, and the revenue from a little advertising box in the bottom right hand corner is rotating away discreetly but continually. It's like a choice between going to the library and borrowing a book for nothing, and going to the library, borrowing a book and getting paid a little bit at the same time. Count me in, my dodgy-looking bank account needs all the friggin help it can get!

There are millions upon millions of people using the internet every day, and they can all tap into this nifty new home page, resulting in millions of dosh. The dosh is in dollars too, which, at this scary moment in the Euro's history, makes it even more attractive.

Zuckerberg rakes in the millions of advertising revenue he gets every day, and shares it with no one (the selfish bugger!). This new home page rakes in all the advertising revenue too, and then shares the joy with everyone who uses the magic home page. If you'd like to join our happy band, you don't have to sing a song, sign a contract or even take your clothes off. You just contact me and I'll send you more info by email.

It's FREE, guys, FREE, and there's no catch! Believe me, if there was, you wouldn't see me for dust. Just let me know if you'd like to know more in the comments below or email me directly to dslfr at hotmail dot com.

Greed and Influence

2011-10-29T12:43:00.002+02:00

I was pondering, the other day, as you do, about whether my blog is a life in France blog. I don't seem to write about specific life in France type things, like village life, or interacting with the locals. And when I do actually, it usually gets me into trouble - oops... I suppose it's a bit off-putting, getting into trouble each time you stick your head above the parapet.

Recently, apart from the weekend away blogs in Mont Ventoux, you'd be hard-pressed to realise I live in France, as I've blogged about boys' smelly socks, my stomach muscles, and Groupon. I suppose I don't think of myself as having a life in France specifically, I just live here and get on with it in my own little way.

Anyway, today I thought I'd break out again, and risk local wrath, to write about the shenanigans of the agglomeration. My village is not part of the agglomeration. This means local taxes are low which is a good thing. It also means the mayor has more say in what can be built where, which is also a good thing. It is part of a community of villages which share the same outlook on life - preserving village life and not being consumed by the voracious agglo which would really like to cover the place in flats, tax us heavily and not really offer anything much beyond 40cts off the price of park and ride tram ticket.

A few years ago, the previous president of the region decided unilaterally and completely illegally to impose membership of the agglo on my village and the one next door. A referendum was held and 95% of the inhabitants said they didn't want to be part of the agglo. So the mayors took legal action, and two years later we were out of it again. I must say, in that time, I didn't notice any improvement in living conditions beyond a few cents off here and there and a better bus service, but I never use the bus.

The president of the agglo, however, is not satisfied. He looks to the wealth of the villages and wants to tap into that lovely taxable revenue to fund waste water treatment centres for the city, tram lines that won't reach either village and other such projects. He is also under pressure from predatory developers who eye hungrily all the prime site land just waiting to be concreted over by des res flats and starter homes.

Despite the fact that the Region's Prefet has approved the existing limits of the village community - an act of wisdom and courage, according to our mayor - the lobbyists are fighting to have access to unacceptable levels of land development. We are awaiting news of the outcome of a series of meetings defining the future plan of development which will determine whether we retain our rural identity or become absorbed by the conurbation.

Absolutely no one wants to be absorbed into anything; no one that lives here, anyway, as it is precisely this rural aspect that is so appealing - quiet, peaceful, safe, but right near the big city. I don't know how much longer we can hang on, but I hope the voracious agglo doesn't get its way, because it would seriously affect life around here - more cars, more people, more noise, less security, more disturbance, etc.

I live here because it's a perfect environment for bringing up children. My children can roam free, as I did at their age, and can be independent to a much greater degree than if they lived in a place that had major traffic issues, fewer places to roam, and less sense of security.

I just hope that common sense prevails, not the greedy developers, and the wishes of the inhabitants are upheld.

When you think that there are no actual jobs for people to have around here, one does wonder who it is the developers expect to buy all the new flats and houses, quite apart from the fact that Montpellier has already been transformed recently by excessive building, and promotion of the last days of the tax dodge scheme the Loi Scellier. Investors may find such projects interesting, but who are they going to rent to? Where are all the jobs needed to finance the purchase of rental of such properties? It's quite a conundrum.

"Mummy, You Look Pregnant"

2011-10-22T13:26:00.000+02:00

The immortal words of my youngest son this summer, blast him. Still, sometimes you need a kick up the arse to get you moving, and get moving is what I did.

As this is not a sponsored blog I'm not going to plaster the mark of the equipment I used, but I'll mention it in tiny letters at the end.

I may have mentioned before that I find exercise unutterably boring. It can be mildly alleviated by listening to music on an MP3 player, but not enough in my opinion, and my player was 'borrowed' by my eldest son and dumped back with the announcement that it didn't work any more. Thanks, son!

But I have a friend who gave me a stomach firming kit which uses battery-controlled buzzing (or vibrations but it feels like buzzing). Stomach-firming for the lazy, I call it, and thus perfect for yours truly. I'd had it for a while, and used it from time to time on a fairly low level. Naturally nothing much happened and I didn't like using it in the winter as the pads are so cold it's torture putting them on and waiting for them to warm up. Yes, I'm that much of a wimp.

However, my youngest son's image of me convinced me to speed things up a bit. As it was July and thus relatively warm (not that warm as we had crap weather) I happily got the kit out and racked it up to 20. It buzzed with much more vigour. Next day 21 then 25 (buzz buzz) for a few days then I thought, what the hell, and set it as 30.

So did it work? Well, yes it DID! Amazingly so.

My TWDB told me that there are two zones to the stomach area: a sexy one below the belly button, and a normal one above. On models, they are flat as a board from top to bottom, but while this is what's required to be a clothes' horse, it is not ideal from a male point of view. Your average bloke likes beneath the belly button to be gently rounded because this denotes fertility and sexual attraction (did you know that?). A flat area is not sexy because it doesn't show a high level of potential fertility.

However, above the belly button should be flat and 'held in' by the stomach muscles. Presumably otherwise one is likely to be mistaken for being pregnant...

You could be doing 100 sit-ups every day for the same effect, but frankly, why bother, especially if you have a delicate back? Kit yourself out in a buzzing belt and you can exercise whilst watching tele, reading a book, surfing on the internet or even ironing!

I now have a much-improved silhouette, can get into more of my trousers and feel much better. My TWDB is delighted because while he thought the same as my son, he didn't dare say anything (what a sweetie!). My youngest does have a tendency of saying things how they are but he does it with such sincerity that one can only think of it as a call to action rather than take offence. Mind you, I did take a tiny bit of offence, then pulled myself together because he was absolutely spot on!

The kit I used, then is Slendertone, and you can get them pretty cheaply on Ebay. Highly recommended.

The Cycle of Stink

2011-10-13T12:29:00.000+02:00

Earlier this month I was contacted by a nice lady from Technorati who invited me to contribute some writing in the Lifestyle and Women's sections. I was a bit surprised because the articles I've seen on Technorati all seem to be quite sensible and newsy which is not my style at all.

Anyway, I accepted because I was in the mood to accept, and submitted the following article a few days later. Amazingly... it was rejected because "Technorati is a news and news/opinion site and your piece might be a better fit for your personal blog." I wrote back and said I could quite understand, but didn't really understand why I had been asked to join in the first place because I hardly ever write about news or opinions. It's still a mystery about what they accept in their Women's section, because if there's one thing women have to deal with on a regular basis it's stinky socks. But there ya go...

Anyway, it provided me with a handy post. As a postscript, I found that Sanytol makes a bleach-free disinfecting liquid for dirty clothes which removes odour by killing the bacteria, so I've bought some. Fingers crossed...

* * *

In my pursuit of an ecological halo, I bought a bag of soap nuts this year. The blurb announced that they are supposed to clean as well as normal soap powder. Whoever wrote the blurb obviously doesn't have boys chez lui.

Boys with feet. Boys with ever-growing, ever-dirty feet. Feet that, clad in only in socks, will dash about outside - in the garden or in the road - because it's too much effort for the boy attached to a) find his shoes, b) be bothered to put his shoes on.

The result is socks that present a serious challenge to cleaning products. The white ones turn a muddy grey, with dirt so ingrained that only a bleach blast could have any possible hope of restoring a degree of whiteness. But there is worse.

The smell. Where does the smell come from? The gut-wrenching mixture of potent cheese, rotting vegetation and festering sewer. The smell is transferred from socks to feet to shoes. The whole chain is infected with it. Dirty feet in dirty socks are shoved into increasingly dirty shoes which perpetuates the cycle of stink.

Some shoes you cannot wash so once infected, they nurture the smell and resist all efforts to disinfect. Socks, on the other hand, can be washed, but you'd never believe it given the results from washing with soap nuts.

Poor little soap nuts. Boy socks are their Waterloo. They simply cannot cope. You load the washing machine with hope as well as dirty clothes. You add the little bag of soap nuts, with a few words of encouragement because what they are required to achieve is beyond the call of duty - Breaking the Cycle of Stink.

Later, when the machine has stopped, and is waiting expectantly for you to free it of its load, you take out a sock and sniff. As you feel you heart drop with a thud to your boots, you realise that the only difference between the sock you put in and the sock you've taken out is wetness. You are holding a wet smelly sock, a sock that has been whirled around in 40°C water with a bunch of soap nuts for an hour and a half. To no effect. They are even only mildly less muddy.

With the next load, you feel your ecological halo slip as you resort to a heavy duty chemical tablet. Yet the smell lingers despite the beating it gets from the best that the chemical industry can throw at it.

I give up. Those socks are destined for the bin. Neither ecologically nor economically sound as a solution, but the only lonely answer to breaking the Cycle of Stink.

Plein les Yeux - Giant's Teeth Mountain

2011-10-10T09:35:00.000+02:00


View from hotel room

On Day 2 of our weekend to Mont Ventoux, we awoke to this view, a mountain of giant's teeth. Looking down, we could see this colourful blend of autumnal shades. The river was just on the side of the bushes on the right.

After an industrial breakfast (in quality not quantity), we set off to buy food for lunch so we wouldn't be restricted to dodgy sandwiches at vast expense. We popped into Buis les Baronnies for cheese at a fromagerie, fruit and butter at a little épicerie, and some cooked meat at the charcutier at the end of the road in this photo. I love the way the sun picks out the bright clean colours on the buildings on the right, and leaves the grubbier ones in the shade.

Buis les Baronnies

Content in the knowledge that we wouldn't starve, with 2 lots of bread, jambon sec, ham, cheese, pears, and apples, we headed off along the green roads. The scenery was stunning, but far from being 100% picturesque. From the bike, I managed to take a couple of photos of a dreamy hilltop village with the prosaic evidence of sewage and rubbish reality much in evidence.

Even pretty villages have to deal with poo...

...and rubbish.

Our next stop was the Col de Perty, another favourite with cyclists. We passed several, but very few cars. It was lovely and peaceful. From the other side we could see over to the ever-present Mont Ventoux.

The road down turned and twisted, and put much pressure on the brakes, again. My TWDB had greatly enjoyed the wine the previous evening and took the challenge of the road with much care and attention.

We were soon thinking of lunch, what with seeing bikers picnicking...

and decided to look out for a suitable spot. A quick inspection of the map gave us the idea to go to the Gorges de la Méouge where we afterwards separate from our friends who would head back east while we would continue west. On the way there, we passed through a village where the cliff sides were dotted with lines of little figures in red. The local climbing association is evidently well-supported.

At last we found the ideal spot, next to the river, with views across to the other side and the dramatic formations of tortured limestone...

...and angles of rock strata that are best avoided looking at after a heavy night if you're not too sure which way is up.

The sandwiches we made, with lovely fresh bread, delicious ham and tender tender cheeses were vastly superior to the muck we'd endured the previous day. We even had as much butter as we wanted. The river burbled happily next to us, and all was peaceful under the shade of a handy tree. We had crossed to the other side of the river to get to the shade, balancing precariously on wobbly stones and jumping from one to another hoping they were solid enough not to topple over. The river was nice and shallow, but wet feet in boots are not much fun. After assuming we had a knife, we discovered that it was of the emergency, 4cm blade type, so our sarnies were suitably rustic and appropriate for the adventurous biker.

After lunch we hopped over the river again, not without accident, said good-bye to our friends and roared off, revived, along the rest of the gorges. We decided to take the autoroute at Avignon, so made our way towards Gordes. On the way, we came across a pretty little village, Murs where a large number of smart German cars were parked and the owners were having lunch sprawled on sheets under some trees. We wondered if they were the owners of the dinky houses and had converted the village into a German enclave.

Also on our way was one of the Plus Beaux Villages, Venasque which we popped into to have a quick look. It was perched on a cliff top and was pretty impressive. At last we reached Avignon, and, by this time it was baking and we were rather tired, so were happy to pound our way back home, and collapse onto the sofa.

A fabulous weekend, plein les yeux.

Plein les Yeux - Mont Ventoux

2011-10-04T19:23:00.000+02:00

There are people who have faith in public transport (usually those who do not use it, like politicians), and those who would rather put their hand in a mixer than rely on it utterly because they use it and know that, basically, shit happens (often). It happened to me while taking the boys by tram to the station to catch the train to Paris. Normally you get on the tram at Occitanie and it deposits you without fuss 20 minutes later at la gare. On Friday, instead of turning right towards the station, it carried straight on, without a by your leave, announcement or any other indication of unusual behaviour.

We were not the only ones to be surprised. As we watched the line to the station disappear before our eyes, several panic-stricken folk, who probably also had a train to catch, started getting a little agitated. The tram was not going to the station, but luckily it stopped a couple of hundred metres later, and we were all able to jump out, charge across the tracks to the other platform and wait a minute for the next one back. Once we'd retraced our steps, we nearly made the same mistake twice, but a kindly lad called out that the one we were just about to jump on was not going to the station either. The next one was, however. The boys made it onto the train with 5 minutes to spare.

Public transport? Assume shit happens.

That was the start of my weekend motorbiking. The shit did not continue to happen, thankfully, because we were nowhere near any item that could possibly be deemed as public transportation. On Saturday morning, my TWDB and I loaded up the bike and set off to meet some friends at Cadenet.

Ready to go

The autoroute is not pleasant on a bike, so we took it as far as Nimes and then cut across through Beaucaire to Aix-en-Provence, and then up to Cadenet. It looks a picturesque village on a hill, and had a pleasant place where we stopped at a bar to wait for our friends. The (mature) lady doing the service looked like an old lush what with her long dyed blond hair, tight leopard skin tunic over purple knee-length leggings with frilly bottoms, and belt loosely flirting with the region formerly recognisable as her waist. She clip clopped about in mules and I suppose had a fag on the go in the bar.

Our friends arrived, and we set off for Apt, capital of glacé fruit. It was incredibly busy what with being market day, so although it was nearly lunch time, we just filled up with petrol and no glacé fruit, and carried on north to Sault. On the way there, we passed the Légion Etrangère base of St Christol which was enormous. I looked out for some hunky Légionnaires but apparently they are all in Afghanistan, so it was pretty deserted. The giant satellite dishes looked like they were working hard though.

Sault, - unpromising bar on the right

We entered an unpromising bar for a sandwich which turned out to have a delightful terrasse on the other side, in a shady place. The surroundings were delightful, shame the sandwiches were so crap - industrial baguette and tiny amount of filling. If you wanted butter you had to order the jambon beurre otherwise you got dry bread and cheese or pork for €4. It must be a highly popular centre for them to get away with such a rubbish offering. The other eateries were teaming with bikers and cyclists. It's a popular starting point for visiting Mont Ventoux and is well-known to keen and eager cyclists who emulate the Tour de France by actually cycling all 1912m to the top (mad fools).

Road up to Mt Ventoux

We were not going to do anything as energetic as cycle, but set off for the top by motorbike. Mont Ventoux is an incredible place. Topped by bare limestone scree, it looks, from a distance, like a snow-capped mountain. From Sault, it's a 26km haul up the 'easy' side of the mountain. The Tour de France, which has included the climb in 15 Tours, takes the more gruelling way up from Bédoin.

The yellow and black poles are there to measure winter snow depth. It gets so windy up there that they sometimes close the pass. At the summit, 1912m up, the cyclists were congratulating each other on the success of their challenge. They can even validate their achievement with a stamp in a special box.

Hardy cyclists at the top

Also at the top there's a meteorological station and a huge tour installed by France Television plus a radar station for aviation navigation.

The views from the top are stunning. On a really clear day you can apparently see as far as Marseille and the sea. It was very hazy the day we were there, but we were still amazed at the splendour of the panorama. It leaves you dazed, the sheer immensity of what you can see, and from such a height looking down around at the beauty of the rugged landscape.

You can walk up too, the path indicated by lines of red and blue poles to keep you on the right track and away from the treacherous scree. I wouldn't like to think in what state you'd arrive if you lost your footing and went hurtling down the mountain. The sharp limestone rocks are a more perilous surface to skid down uncontrollably than grass or snow.

We made our way down on the other side of the mountain, me hoping and praying that the brakes would not fail and wondering if I could jump off before the bike went plunging over the edge. I have such an over-active imagination. I decided that I couldn't as I wouldn't be able to clear top case which would push me over too, so I just had to rely on my TWDB not losing control of the situation. Of course, I shared none of these doom-laden thoughts with the driver, not wishing to distract him from the task in hand... The bike performed brilliantly, as always, it's an incredible piece of precision engineering and computer-enhanced controls.

Back down at the bottom, we passed various picturesque villages set on hillsides, the odd one I managed to snap from the bike, which explains the prominence of the lamp post in the picture below. I was rather taken with the ruins of this one, my youngest would love them.

Mont Ventoux is a prominent landmark, visible for miles around. Looking back towards the woody side of the mountain, it doesn't look quite as dramatic, but it certainly stands out.

By this time, we were starting to wonder about where we would spend the night. One delightful-looking place, in the Guide du Routard for the last 6 years or so, was full, unsurprisingly as it was in one of the hill-side villages and had panoramic views from the bedrooms. The food was recommended in the Gault Millau guide too, so we will have to return...

We continued on to Buis les Baronnies where much frantic telephoning from the Tourist Office resulted in finding two rooms which were available at the Hotel Sous l'Olivier. Other places would doubtless have been more charming, but this one was within ten minutes of dinner by foot whereas the others meant taking the bikes and thus limiting the delights of the local wines. We finished off a perfect day at the Brasserie l'Escale where we were agreeably surprised by the quality of the cooking. It was recommended to us by the young proprietress and she was spot on. I had a tender, tasty lamb chop, my TWDB had a sumptuous 5-cheese calzone, and the steak of our friends was fantastic too. The rosé was excellent, although the red and white wines were somewhat average.

The hotel was located next to a burbling stream, which made delightful music all night. I would have slept better had not my extra blanket that I'd fortuitously taken from the cupboard to keep me warm as my TWDB wanted the door to stay open, was nicked during the night by said TWDB, so I ended up as cold as I thought I would be if I hadn't taken the extra blanket.

He was not popular.

Back of the booklet from the Tourist Office at B le B

Not So Great Groupon

2011-09-30T08:06:00.000+02:00

I'm rapidly going off Groupon. The concept is attractive, but the reality is that you have to be a right-on, organised type of person to benefit from all the deals you buy in advance, and that, dear readers, is where I come to grief. That, and the intervention of Sod's Law.

I used to think I was fairly well organised - you have to be to stay afloat in this day and age, what with remembering to keep up with payments of taxes and invoices or be thrown into financial hell, managing children, job, house and the rest single-handed (even when I was married). Managing the important stuff takes ever more energy what with growing boys who have growing requirements and demands, and frankly one just gets tired of the whole damn show sometimes and thinks longingly of escaping to a desert island.

Anyway, I've had some deals that worked with Groupon: I made a calendar of photos for my mother last year (best deal), had my hair cut (unsatisfactorily - they did highlights but no colour and I came out looking half-finished) for half the usual cost, ate at a below average restaurant, and... um, that's it.

The ones that didn't work out include forgetting to go to another (probably below average) restaurant - the deal finished on Sept 15, I noticed this on Sept 23. I gave a microlight adventure coupon to my TWDB who then didn't have time to take it up during the one or two moments when the weather was good at the weekend - we've had a crap summer, and the company was overwhelmed too, so often busy. I tried to get an extension on the time period, the guy said yes, and I had to text him a message, but didn't realise my phone was having a caca nerveux at the time and wasn't sending any messages. By the time I realised this hiccup, the extension period was over.

The latest disaster was buying 4 coupons for the cinema for my son on his birthday last Wednesday. They missed the showing because they were at Laser Game beforehand and it over-ran, and the effing cinema wouldn't let them see the next showing even though they weren't full. I won't be doing that again! And the period you can use the coupons in is really short, so you have to be a regular cinema-goer to be sure to make use of them.

That's €88 I wasted which is about what I saved on the successful ones, so I made no savings at all. I also noticed that when they have an offer on some electrical item like a television I saw, there is no discernible advantage to getting it on Groupon because a quick search on Google threw up the same television for a similar price elsewhere. It was an end of the line model, so was being discounted all over the internet.

Annoyingly, it seems that in the US if you don't use the coupon, your account is re-credited, not so in France. The system here is 'use it or lose it' (and as I seem to lose it more often than not = bad idea!).

I've noticed other dissatisfied customers in forums moaning about how dodgy some of the deals are, and several have stopped their membership because the offers were either for crappy restaurants, body modelling/hairdressing they weren't ever interested in, or dodgy electrical items no cheaper than elsewhere.

In my opinion, for what it's worth (and if they want to keep my custom), Groupon should work harder at getting a better quality of company interested in offering deals, although I suppose these ones don't need the hassle because they are successful already. Anyway, buyer beware, Groupon is not the panacea of bargains it makes itself out to be, or not ones anyone with any standards of quality would be interested in.

If you have any fab Groupon success stories, I'd love to hear them! I have just the one - my mother loved the calendar (that it took me hours to make).

Dinner - Reserve Rimbaud, and Stats

2011-09-28T19:25:00.000+02:00

Well we had a lovely time last night at La Reserve Rimbaud. Nothing went awry, it was all impeccable, charming and professional. We were able to sit outside in the balmy Indian Summer evening air overlooking a bend in the river Lez. The water was so still it looked almost stagnant. It was only when you squinted up one eye and fixed a leaf and length of railing that you could detect movement. It's the two dams, the cause of the hold-up we were told.

We were given delectable amuse bouches including a tiny bowl of fantastic olive oil into which we dunked some focaccia. My starter was homard bleu. Not being a lobster connoisseur I asked if it was blue because it was practically raw or for some other reason. It's the name, apparently. They come from Brittany. Anyway, the essentially claw meat was delicate and delicious, served with what seemed to be slivers of turnip that had been given rings of beetroot juice (although the menu says vinaigrette à la beetroot), plus carrottes anciens and caramelised onions des Cevennes.

My main course was hunks of the tenderest fillet of veal ever. They must travel far to find such a supplier because I've never tasted veal that good around here, even when buying it from the butcher at vast expense. It was served with fried girolles and potimarron confits and was une merveille!

I didn't have a dessert because I'm not really very desserty and there was nothing that grabbed my fancy. We had dinner with a bottle of white wine as I'm having my teeth whitened and cannot drink red or rosé. Only white and champagne!

The service was excellent - not too slow, not too fast; it was attentive without being overbearing. Really, it's a very nice place to go for a celebratory dinner (or lunch).

* * *

On a slightly different tack, my stats have been going mad recently, with huge inexplicable peaks. If anyone has an idea why this is happening, I'd be interested to know. If it had only happened once I'd think it was a Blogger Blip, but it happens regularly. Ideas on a postcard please.

Dinner Tales and A-Z

2011-09-27T19:19:00.001+02:00

I had a pretty exciting time this weekend, in a low energy kind of way. We're not talking extreme sport or high-octane activity, just a couple of out of the ordinary events. The funniest was trying to go out for dinner, my birthday dinner no less. My TWDB and I had aimed to have an adventure, as in eating in a totally unknown to us restaurant, and adventure we had, but not quite in the way we'd expected.

He had spent an hour or so on the internet looking up restaurant review sites, like Trip Advisor, L'internaute, etc. Each site's reviewers gave totally different reviews for all the restaurants he looked up. It became impossible to find one restaurant that had a consensus among all the reviewers, except one, and that one we'd already found out to be booked up for a private party. That's where we're going tonight... La Reserve Rimbaud.

In the end, he booked at Les Bains for 8.30-9pm. My great buddy C asked us over for an apero beforehand so we rolled up in good time and I was delighted to see a bottle of champers as a special birthday treat. We were having such a jolly time that it was with a shock that I looked at my watch and saw it was 8.45pm! YIKES!

We hot-footed it back to the car and zoomed off to Montpellier. Arriving at one of the central carparks, we found a queue, a static queue, a queue that had an inevitably non-moving air to it. It was 9.05pm. Before we engaged the Slope of No Return down into the bowels of the earth, we decided to divert right and try and find a space elsewhere. It was a hopeless quest, Montpellier is a heaving city of entertainment seekers on a Saturday night, and people were drawing blood over spaces... (jk).

In the end, we headed up to Castelnau le Lez, parked and walked into a half-empty restaurant. Upon asking if they had room, we were told no. I looked around at the empty tables. "You wouldn't believe it would you?" said the waiter. "No" we said. They were due to have a huge rush of pre-booked diners in 15 minutes. We eyed him dubiously and left. After calling several other places which were all full (crisis? what crisis?), we headed back to the Bord du Lez which has a number of chain restaurants so ample room even if the cuisine is chain-managed food.

An SUV came out of a space in front of Bistro Romain. I took it as an omen. We shot into it, then entered the restaurant. They had lots of room too, but it was real room not pretend room, so we were showed to a table and had dinner (I had a fry-up of saint-jacques and small gambas - prawns to you and me, he had carpaccio of salmon à volonté, and had 3 platters full, plus chips). As we left, at 11.15pm, a bunch of people who'd been watching the footie started coming in for a late dinner, but as we passed the Castelnau place, it was still mostly empty...

Because of the minor disaster of Saturday, my TWDB said he would re-book for my birthday meal, and he got a table at la Reserve Rimbaud, which is super because it means I get to go out twice in 4 days. I love going out to dinner!

In the spirit of revealing more about myself, here is a meme that I got from Lucy at Being of Sound Mind. It's an A-Z of bits of me.

A - Age

48 just but I don't look my age, so I'm told, and I like to agree.

48? You're joking! (er, yes... me in 1987)

B - Bed Size

Double, not big enough really, but fine for one who likes sleeping on the diagonal.

C - Chore you hate

Housework, in general. That's why I have a cleaning lady in once a week (that and I get half what I pay her off my taxes - YAY).

D - Dogs

No ta, I'm a cat person. My cat came to work with me today. He sat quietly in the back, I didn't notice until the end of the day when I saw him strolling round outside the front door!

E - Essential start to your day

Yorkshire blend cuppa, except right now I'm deprived as I'm having my teeth whitened, so NO TEA for about 6 weeks (or red wine, or chocolate - takes dedication!).

F - Favourite colour

Um, yellow and green.

G - Gold or silver

Gold looks better on me as I have, now that I live in the South of France, a light biscuit coloured skin which sets off gold nicely.

H - Height

5'3, wish I was more.

I - Instruments you play

I've done a lot of music in my time. I played the violin which I gave up to play the viola. Also the piano and I took exams in the recorder too.

J - Job title

For the roof and food on the table, my job title is Clerk, but I prefer my job de coeur title of writer.

K - Kids

2 boys: 15 (tomorrow) and 10

L - Live

near Montpellier, France

M - Mother's name

Katherine but everyone calls her Mary.

N - Nickname

Sock, came from my big brother.

O - Overnight hospital stays

Two times, when I gave birth.

P - Pet peeves

Ungratefulness, irrational arguments, religious nuts.

Q - Quote from a film

Um... can't remember any, sorry.

R - Right or left handed?

Right

S - Siblings

Two brothers: one older one younger.

T - Time you wake up

The alarm goes off at 7.15am but I've usually been awake on and off for hours. My cat wakes me regularly between 4-5am to go out.

U - Underwear

I have some.

V - Vegetable you hate

Okra - YUK!

W - What makes you run late

My kids.

X - X-Rays you've had

Loads - breast, back, hand

Y - Yummy food that you make

I enjoy cooking so I make quite a lot of yummy things. I make a mean kedgeree and delicious chicken risotto plus home-made burgers with home-made ciabatta buns. Amongst other things.

Z - Zoo animal

I don't like zoos, but penguins will do it for me if I'm forced to go.

If anyone else would like to do this, feel free. I'm not nominating anyone because I'm so nosey I'd note down my entire blog list!

It's Cold Call Out

2011-09-24T14:14:00.003+02:00

How many times has your phone gone JUST when you've gone into the loo and are on the point of relaxing causing you to dash out again thinking a child has come a cropper somewhere and needs your urgent assistance. Or when you're in the middle of something fiddly in the kitchen, like pancakes and need TOTAL concentration if they aren't to burn in the nanosecond between perfectly done and a gonner only fit for the bin. Or when you've just started dinner and your hands which had been perfectly clean seconds ago are now not since you took the steak out of the packet and started rubbing it with oil and garlic. Or when you're having a serious conversation with your son and he's about to confide some important snippet of information... And when you get to the phone, struggling over XBox manettes, mini trampoline, sundry weapons, shoes, dirty socks and other boy-centred detritus, it's a SODDING COLD CALL! Someone trying to sell you a new kitchen or a tax-dodge property or any other myriad ways of paying less tax (if you pay over €3000 tax - I don't), or new windows, or a kitchen, or a punch on the friggin' nose!

I have a nifty way of dealing with them. They usually ask for Mme [insert married name] because their list is so out of date that it harks back to the days when my ex-husband and I owned our house (or were buying it off the bank...) and were considered fair game for a new kitchen. The house was actually brand new with brand new kitchen, bathroom, tiles, bricks, mortar, electricity cables the lot, but the only cold calls we got then were about buying yet another brand new kitchen or bathroom. "I've got a new one" I'd say thinking that would put them off, "the house is only 2 months old!". It did, marginally, grudgingly. I could hardly use two...

Now when they ask for me by my married name I deny all knowledge of such a person. "No, no one by that name here," I say. If they are naive rookies, they fall for it, if they are more hard-bitten die-hards they just adjust their spiel to the new circumstances. In that case, declaring that I rent usually terminates the conversation nicely. They're not interested in non-house-owning obviously impoverished plebs like me. But it's still annoying getting these calls at all.

However, help is at hand. Craig McGinty at This French Life wrote about a new service that's starting in December. Pacitel is the answer to all those unsolicited calls from companies one gives not a toss about, where one is not a client and if they all spontaneously combusted tomorrow, one would not shed le moindre tear. You can register your numero fixe and mobile from companies where you are not already on their client list (if you are, I think you're stuffed as they'll never remove you. You'll just have to move, change your number and get a new identity). The member companies undertake to consult this Pacitel list and remove those numbers from their own list of names and numbers before embarking on a cold call campaign. The website says that members of the Pacitel Association represent 80% of cold call marketeers, so that should reduce the nuisance calls considerably. Signing up is also free which is fab news too! Peace at no cost. It doesn't get better than that!

The service starts on December 1, 2011 so hurry, hurry, sign up for peace!

Cheap de Chez Cheap Suppers

2011-09-17T10:03:00.000+02:00

On Wednesday I made one of the cheapest suppers for 6 ever. Wednesday is my shopping day. I'm not keen on shopping but no shopping results in a slow and agonising death so shop one must. There I was browsing Carrouf peacefully (no kids) along the fairly empty aisles (which is why I go on Wednesday, not Saturday) and came to the fish counter.

I don't know about your family but my boys are not keen on fish. My ex-husband and I would have this conversation:
Him: "What's for dinner?"
Me: "Fish"
Him: "What, no meat?"
Me: "Yes, fish"
Him: *sulks*

So this is the environment in which they spent their formative years. My eldest likes salmon and Dover sole but my youngest will only eat smoked salmon, mussels and crab sticks. Undaunted, I bought mackerel. It was €3.50 a kilo! Three mackerel came to the mighty sum of €1.80 and the guy gutted them for me too.

I also bought a cauliflower which was on special offer although I know that the boys hate it.

Back home, I thought I'd hide the taste of the mackerel nicely in fish cakes. The boys like fish cakes, love them in fact. You can put anything in a fish cake and they'll eat it with joy. Odd, isn't it? They don't really like the fish but they love the fish cake.

Of course, fish cakes are a bugger to make, all messy and time-consuming. Still, got to get the vitamins and omega whatsit into the little sods so needs must. I already had some mash sitting in the fridge so whether it was enough or not didn't matter, it was all I had. I wasn't going to start making the mash too (although I've done that in the past, mad fool that I am).

The mash went into a nice big bowl with a dollop of horseradish sauce. I filleted the fish which was full of lovely sensations because the texture was all squashy and soft, and it was easy too otherwise I would have given up. In they went to the microwave with a squirt of lemon and dash of olive oil until just cooked (no point overdoing it), then I flaked them and chucked them into the bowl too together with their juice and a nice pile of chopped parsley, s&p.

I didn't have time to let the mixture cool because we wanted dinner that night not later, so I had to make the patties there and then, which meant a Big Mess. Then I dipped each one in flour, then egg then breadcrumbs. As the process got messier, with fish cakes threatening to disintegrate in the egg dish, so my temper frayed more and more. Once I'd finished the 7 patties I then had to clean up the kitchen. As you can see, fish cakes are not for the faint-hearted. Dedicated idiots only need apply.

I fried them gently in oil and butter and we had one each as they were so filling, with salad and a squirt of lemon juice. That meant Thursday's dinner was sorted too, which we had with broccoli. You can see why I said it must be the cheapest supper ever! They were delicious, and the boys remarked how strange it was that they don't like mackerel but they do love mackerel fish cakes. I just ground my teeth.

Continuing the cheap but tasty (and a lot less trouble) supper, I cooked the cauliflower last night for my TWDB and me. I steamed it (I hate soggy cauliflower), and fried an onion which I put in an oven-proof dish. The cauliflower went on top plus the sauce. I made a white sauce into which I added a shake or two of curry powder and grated aged mimolette cheese plus s&p. I baked it in the oven while I fried up some potato slices so my youngest had fried potato, ham and tomato while we had cauliflower cheese and fried potato. I must say, it tasted very yummy. The curry was a big hit taste-wise and the colour was lovely - all orangey and vibrant. Much more attractive than the pale cauliflower cheese made with cheddar.

No photos, I'm afraid. I'm too lazy to take photos of my cooking, and frankly, after making the fish cakes what I needed was a large glass of wine and a nice sit down. My camera was way down on my list of priorities. You'll just have to use your imaginations.

Ways and Means

2011-09-14T22:51:00.002+02:00

I'm very glad I don't have to pass my driving test again here in France. I was watching a tele programme about it yesterday and it was pretty shocking. To start with, it costs a fortune - average €1500! If you fail the driving test first time, the cost can escalate horribly.

Driving schools get a monthly list of test dates for their candidates from the local authorities, the number directly related to their success in getting candidates through. They will not have enough slots for the number of candidates they have, so have to choose by priority. Top of the list to get a place are first-timers. If there are any slots left after them, then the second-timers get a chance, and so forth. This explains why, if you fail your test you can wait months for a new slot. Some people never get a slot because their driving school just won't put them in again if they fail too many times.

If you want to transfer your file to another school, you have to shop around as many refuse to take transfers. If you do strike lucky, you'll have to pay. Some centres insist you start all over again - yet another €1500 maybe more if they think they can get away with it. Tariffs are not regulated, it's a positive free-for-all.

With 1.3million people taking their test every year, there's not much incentive to bring prices down or show any esprit de competitivité. Over half that number will be young people taking their test for the first time. It's been shown that over 70% pass first time if they follow the accompanied driver scheme, so guess what my boys will be doing!

The rest are those who've lost all their driving licence points and have to re-take the test to get their licence back. It's a bit of a racket by the looks of things. Best not lose the points in the first place. I think they make it especially difficult in the hope that the stick, not the carrot, will get drivers to behave on the road in the first place. Points can be lost rapidly. The programme showed one driver losing 2 points for not keeping a safe distance, and another 3 for driving 20km/ph over the limit. As he only had six left on his licence, he's going to have be very very good for the next couple of years until he gets them back.

Help is at hand though, for contesting point loss. There are websites that give advice and provide model letters to drivers who don't wish to take their situation lying down. One is SolutionsPermis which was shown on the programme - you can request the photo of your speed 'flash', contest the fact that you were speeding, buy a radar detector and so on.

If you do find yourself barred from driving, one solution is to go to Senegal to get back your licence. Many countries have reciprocal agreements with France for driving licences, and, as elsewhere it may be neither expensive nor hard to pass the test, it's very a tempting option. Plus, in a place like Senegal, all it takes is a little lubrication of the administrative wheels to by-pass awkward details like 6-month residency, and you can go on holiday with a wad of cash (€300 should cover it), and go to a driving school where they will take care of everything. All you have to do is show up, back between two piles of tyres set 20m apart and success is yours. Then you get it converted into a French licence back in France, all legal and above board (by now), and Bob's yer uncle.

It never ceases to amaze me the creativity of people whose aim it is to skirt awkward rules and regulations. Are you getting too many points for speeding? Go and see a man about getting your car registered to an anonymous company (yours) in Lithuania. There's a roaring trade in it apparently, although it comes at a cost of about €5000. Points clocked up on foreign cars cannot be validated because the authorities won't have the address of the driver, especially that of an anonymous company, it being anonymous an' all.

You might be interested to know that the French authorities are on the point of making alcohol tests obligatory. Drivers will have to carry at least one in the car at all times, the penalty for not doing so, a loss of points (natch). You can get single-use ones in places like the pharmacy for €1, or machines that cost more, but you won't run out if you keep it in the glove box. My favourite is the Pelimex CA2000 PX Pro Gold. Why? Because of the video that goes with it. I can't insert it here because it's on Flash, but do click on the link and scroll down to the bottom. You'll see an animated explanation of how it works, and it's very jolly. Don't forget to turn on the sound.

For the record, I have all my points but as I never go anywhere, there is no particular merit in this. Living outside the city helps too.

Guns and Further Madness

2011-09-09T23:54:00.000+02:00

Today's news is that I went out last night, into Montpellier, on a Thursday, which is THE day for going out. I went out with some buddies confidently expecting to be met there by my TWDB. He was on his way back from Lyon by train. Not long before he was due to arrive in Montpellier he sent me a text warning me he'd be late because there were 'people with guns near Valence station!'.

People with guns? Near Valence station? What madness was this? You might expect gun-toting loonies in Marseille, capital of gangland revenge shootings, but near Valence? What was happening near Valence that couldn't take place in Valence itself? The mystery was never solved because no further information came my TWDB's way and he had to content himself with arriving before midnight and going straight home. (In fact it made the news this morning.)

We, on the other hand, went to L'Atelier where further madness was developing nicely. L'Atelier is a cool, right-on place (where I stick out like a sore thumb), but I enjoy going there because it's never as it should be according to my buddies. They only have to say that it's always packed and full of buzz for me to turn up and the place is 3/4 empty. They only have to say that the food is pretty good for the kitchen to have an off day because the chef is absent.

So I was keen to experience another atypical soirée and I was not disappointed. We were sat just inside the building (which was open along its length) next to a large table set outside where a group of friends were enjoying the warm evening air. Everyone perches on bar stools except for those at a few tables inside. We ordered some rosé and a mixed plateau of charcuterie, cheese and smoked salmon. Very tasty it was, the smoked salmon being a nice surprise because it's rare to find the good stuff in restaurants (unless you're paying an arm and a leg).

We were having a jolly time and it was all going swimmingly when we were suddenly deafened by a woman yelling 'Hey! Hey! Hey!' at the top of her voice to some music that was playing. She then shimmied up from the back of the restaurant to her table at the front next to ours - the large one - yelling and punching the air as she did so. I don't know what illicit substance she was on but it was certainly 'doing it for her'. She went dancing back inside, grabbed the patron and got him to rock 'n' roll with her, danced back outside to her group waving her arms and imperilling those nearby. Like me. I had my back to her and my friends were convinced I was going to come into the line of fire of her flailing arms.

Fortunately she did nothing more than back into me a couple of times so I did not go home covered in bruises and have some hard explaining to do at work the next day... At one point she was head-banging her hair which was in a pony tail so that it twirled round and round, up and down and every which way, and enjoying the sensation. I'm amazed she managed not to topple over or puke which shows she can't have been drunk. To and fro she went doing her crazy dance and providing the evening with some remarkably lively entertainment.

I leaned over to her table and asked one of her friends if she was all right. "Mais oui," said she, "She's just decompressing because she's under a lot of pressure at the moment." I asked her what she did. "She's a lawyer" was the reply. A lawyer! I must admit, I was a tad surprised and made a mental note of her face so if I ever needed a new lawyer and met her by chance, I would remember that she's a complete nut-case and has a funny way of decompressing.

In the end we left her to it. She didn't take up our totally unnecessary offer to give her a lift home funnily enough, and I rather hope she didn't have anything terribly important to deal with today...

SarahHague Goes DotCom

2011-09-06T21:18:00.000+02:00


Cartoon by Dave Walker. Find more cartoons you can freely re-use on your blog at We Blog Cartoons.

I was mucking about on Blogger/Google, as you do, today, when I got a message suggesting I register the domain www.sarahhague.com. To be honest, I thought it had been snapped up ages ago, but either another Sarah Hague has given up her subscription, or I just got it wrong, but it was available. So, without further thought or a minute's reflection, I slammed down $10 on the table and cried "I'll have it!".

Then, blindly, I started following instructions and windows and found myself with a Blogger blog converted to a my domain blog powered by Blogger and Google. Big deal, thought I, wonder what this will change... Well, it has changed something. All my Disqus comments have disappeared from the blog. They are still in my Disqus account, but I can't get them to appear on the posts. So now I appear as Sarah NoMates or Sarah NoComments and all the lovely comments that people have so kindly posted are lurking quietly minding their own business on my Disqus account.

Bizarre. I've tried looking to solve this, but Disqus is being opaque, so I think I might have to give up. Of course, I'm no longer sure that I wanted to export my Blogspot blog but it's done now, and I don't think I've got the energy to do anything more radical today. I've used up my radical reserves for the next couple of weeks I reckon.

Now I'm merely wondering if I can change the look of my blog. I'd like one with three columns and perhaps more pages (at least one), but the thought of copying over all the widgets is bringing me over all faint, so maybe I'll just do nothing, and live with the domain name for a while.

Anyway, if you stop receiving post updates on your reader, it might be because of this domain change thingy, in which case it may work if you modify the link. I'm not quite ready to go hacking, I fear... But that is a project for my dotage so I've got time yet... if the brain is willing (which I doubt).

That's a Rentrée and a half, innit?!

Tough Choices

2011-09-05T15:13:00.000+02:00

Sometimes I get panic-stricken at the thought of my dotage. The way the world is going though, including the euro, I may not have too much to worry about because we're all be ruined and living under bridges, but if the economy manages to hold itself together enough not to implode, the future of our pensions is still enough to keep us all awake at night.

Anyone with a house of their own will probably be okay as they'll have walls come what may, but I've favoured bringing up my kids in a rental house in a nice place rather than buying a flat in a no-go ghetto.

Still, I think I've found the solution. Prison. Thanks to an article by Libby Purves today in The Times (££) about State intervention in prisons, care homes and foster homes, I've come to the conclusion that prison might be just the place for a comfy old age.

Apparently, there's a charity that assists and studies older inmates - Recoop (which sounds more like a chicken house manufacturer) that has found that older inmates often do little exercise, isolate themselves from the younger ones and basically just wait to die. Actually this doesn't sound an awful lot different from the lives of many old people, but in prison you have the National Offender Management Service which makes provisions to alleviate this situation.

There will be a palliative care “hospice” type suite at Whatton Prison, instructions to prison kitchens to include soft foods, widened cell doors for wheelchairs, hospital-style beds and bathrooms. Some prisons have special gym sessions and chair-bound exercise classes. We learn that at HMP Leyhill, where the oldest inmate is 82 and Recoop is active, there is a raised garden, a day centre, relaxation sessions, quizzes and “reminiscence therapy” with DVDs of life in the 1940s. Young prisoners are invited to “buddy” and assist the feeble.

Sounds quite attractive, doesn't it? I mean if the choice is a bleak, cold flat because fuel is so costly, sitting wrapped in 3 coats, mittens and woolly hats eating baked beans and seeing no one from one week's end to the next, or committing some heinous crime followed by a nice warm cell, three meals a day plus as much entertainment as you want... What's not to like?

So I've been thinking about the heinous crime I could commit. Obviously one doesn't want to harm anyone physically, although the temptation might be great sometimes, and one wouldn't want to impoverish a nice group of fellow oldies with a financial scam. However, bankers are fair game, as are estate agents, car salesmen and anyone who's too smug. I quite fancy a bit of hacking actually although my computer skills are not really up to it as of yet. I could call myself GrannyHacEsq. That would confuse 'em.

Or a bank raid? I could borrow my son's balaclava and stick painted loo rolls to myself with bits of wire coming out of some Plasticine and attached to a little box with a flashing red light (you can tell I used to watch Blue Peter), and yell "This is a bank raid! Stick 'em up or I blow you all to Kingdom Come!" Then someone would press a button, the police would come screeching round the corner, sirens deafening the eager crowd, I would pretend to take a hostage (a nice young man...), demand a helicopter and a passage to India, and allow myself, with a slight struggle, to be arrested and hauled off to prison. YAY mission accomplished.

Once in prison, if anyone started talking about releasing me, I'd pretend to go all Alzheimery and a danger to myself if left to my own devices, and settle down once more to a nice spot of gardening and some reminiscence therapy.

I predict the prison population will explode after a series of petty crimes committed by the elderly looking for a cushy dotage. It would also take a huge weight off our children's shoulders, knowing we're safe behind bars and not getting up to further mischief.

It's either prison or a cruise ship, anyway; the advantage of a cruise ship being that you can hop overboard in a drunken haze when the money runs out. Of course, you'd have to clear it with your kids first just in case they objected to the idea of you being lost at sea, eaten by fish, and a having body-less funeral.

Tough choices.