Berry Deep France

8th May 2013 – V.E. Day

France and Britain (or should I say England) – at times the best of friends and also the best of enemies. Just a cursory glance at our respective national histories shows that the French and the English have actually spent more time as enemies. It wasn’t until the 1904 « Entente Cordiale » that both nations elected to become « friends » and even then, this was not a military alliance, just an agreement to « get along together » born from a mutual mistrust of Germany. And when Europe finally did go to war in August 1914, the British pretext for entering the war was not to help France, but to help the Belgians. The German invasion of Belgium violated that country’s neutrality as set out in the 1830 Treaty of London – to which the British were signatories.

I suppose, even in the early 21st century, the English still regard the French with a degree of mistrust, though in recent years this seems to have widened to Europe (or rather the European Union) – the recent success of the UK Independence Party (UKIP) in British local council elections being the proof. Almost 21% of the popular vote at the polls. UKIP, as the name suggests advocates (amongst other policies) the British withdrawal from the European Union. On this side of the Channel, we have a party preaching a similar anti-European sermon – le Front National (FN) – The FN, led by the charismatic Marine Le Pen are, in French political terms, on the far right. I’m not sure I could put UKIP in the same category, they are a very « English » phenomenon – though they are not in the league of the late nineteenth century « Little Englanders » - UKIP are quite happy to maintain relations with Europe rather than live in splendid isolation. » (I digress)

In this appraisal of Anglo-French (or Franco-British as the French say) – I am drawn to a story in this morning’s British press – it concerns the approval by Westminster Council to erect a 14 foot tall, blue cockerel on the fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square in central London. For those not « au-fait » with the fourth plinth – it is a plinth (obviously) that is reserved for the exhibition of artworks. Every couple of months the art exhibit on the plinth is changed – on past visit to London, I have seen the plinth occupied by a vast ship in a bottle or a wooden horse. The Cockerel is of course the French national symbol. Critics of the cockerel exhibit deem that it is inappropriate to plonk such an obvious expression of all things French, right at the foot on Nelson’s Column – I can’t quite see what the fuss is about, though I can imagine French indignation were the Mayor of Paris to propose the installation of an equally massive Bulldog sculpture on the Place de La Concorde in Paris.

Nelson fought Napoleon at the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805. In 1815, Napoleon suffered defeat at Waterloo (now a station), and after the Congress of Vienna, Britain pretty much washed its hands of Europe for the next hundred years, choosing instead to indulge in a little Empire building. With growing British scepticism on Europe, I wonder if it is realistic once again to head into a period of « splendid isolation »? David Cameron has announced a possible referendum on the European question in 2017 – far enough away for it to never happen, and of course by this point there will have been the referendum on Scottish independence and the Scots – if they do vote for cutting links with the English – will stay in Europe. They are true Europeans. – Well let’s put it another way – the only other people who the English have been bashing up as long as the French are the Scots and I guess it was normal that the French and the Scots would at some point get together. The Scots and the French had one of he first, and the longest lasting military alliances in Europe.

Scottish Aside

The French and the Scots first got it together in 790AD, when the Emperor Charlemagne signed an alliance with Achaius, King of Scotland. In 1295 King John Balliol of Scotland signed another alliance (the auld alliance) with king Philippe IV of France. During the Hundred Years there was a full time Scottish army of over 6000 men helping the French fight the English. Scottish forces helped Joan of Arc when she broke the English siege of Orleans. From then on, a regiment of Scots Guards was a permanent feature of the French army up until the 18th century. During the 1715 and the 1745 Jacobite rebellions, the French sent, what we might call in modern terms – military aid to the Scots.

So, I have got lost in historical detail, though, Franco-British (or Anglo-French history) was the original theme of this post.

As a British ex-pat (and there are 600,000 of us in France) once you have finally and fully assimilated all French social mores, customs and cultural practices, there still remains one great difference that you will perhaps never fully overcome – it is the weight of history.

I think, for my generation at least, we were taught British history as if it were world history – even though we studied « European History » - it was always taught with what I might term « an exclusive English view », which though at times could be unbiased (depending on the teacher) – never gave any room for other histories.

I cite a meeting many years ago with an ex-pat friend in Paris, who, to his great surprise had actually discovered that the French also have a history. He had made his « discovery » after his son had started Learning history in a French school.

First shock – the kids are learning French history and not British history. « Normal » I said, « we are in France ».

Second shock – when the kids learn French history, they learn nothing about the English.

I knew what he meant. But why should French kids learn about the English? I too was appalled when my daughter started studying the First World War.

« Dad, we’re the British involved in the First World War? »
« Erm yes - the battle of the Somme, Loos, Ypres, Passchendaele. There were British and Commonwealth troops who fought at the Chemin des Dames and at Verdun. »

Dad wanted to get mad with the history teacher, BUT, why would the kids be Learning about General Kitchener, Marshall Haig, the Battle of the Somme? For French history teachers concentrating on the carnage of he Great war, all these are sideshows and details, for the French it’s all about Verdun and the Taxis of the Marne and ….

Of course when we talk about the weight of history, the greatest burden is World War Two.

Today is May 8th. In France we have an official public holiday to mark/celebrate/reflect upon the War.

This morning the French President went to the tomb of the Unknown Soldier at the Arc de Triomphe in Paris and laid wreaths, along with those surviving French combatants. The same ceremony will have been played out at every war memorial in every city, town and village in France. Of course there are war memorials in towns and villages all over Britain, the USA, Canada – but in Britain at least, we don’t celebrate the 8thMay – which for the Allies was officially VE Day or Victory in Europe – for the French though, the 8th May ceremonies do not celebrate a victory as such, they are a moment to reflect upon the cost and the sacrifice, though, when kids are taught about May 8th, it is always in terms of « the victory over Nazi Germany »

So, just to show you how each country has a different take on history – this morning at St Paul’s Cathedral in London; there was a memorial service to commemorate the 70th anniversary of the end of The Battle of The Atlantic. Surviving veterans attended and paid homage to their fallen comrades. Now, there was nothing about this in the French news. Why should there be? This was not a French battle, although plenty of French seamen served on the Atlantic convoys. While Britain was struggling with her war, the French were living under Nazi occupation – and this is where history can be difficult for an ex-pat. Of course we all know about the French résistance, but I have had « historically unaware « ex-pat colleagues who have openly asked the question « did the French fight in the war? » - well yes they did. It was French armoured divisions that spearheaded the liberation of Paris in August 1944. Even after the Liberation of France, French forces continued the battle alongside the Allies right into the heart of Nazi Germany until its final destruction. French forces were involved in the D-Day landings.

We can’t talk about WW2 history without mentioning the Dunkirk factor. The routing of the BEF (British Expeditionary Force) and their final evacuation from the beaches at Dunkirk. In French terms, this was a British defeat, the Brits « ran away ». For the Brits, the WW2 propaganda machine actually turned this into some kind of victory – not al the British soldiers were killed or captured – 300,000 made it home. What we neglect (on both sides) is the fact that 128,000 French combatants were also evacuated, and once back in Britain they were given the choice to stay or to return home. – I guess I could go on for hours about the historical « anomalies »

On this day of WW2 Remembrance – different « anniversaries » have been marked on both sides of the Channel (which he French call La Manche). I suppose they mark our different view of a shared history, however, there is one particular « anniversary « that the French will not be marking today – the Sétiff Massacres.

As an ex-pat, it is important to learn the history of your adopted country. However, there comes a point when you start to learn those parts of history that the natives themselves would rather forget. I suppose it works both ways – I know plenty of Frenchmen who loathe the English and who readily and zealously remind me of the actions of the Royal Navy at Mers el Kebir, when in July 1940, a British naval force sank the greater part of the French navy, moored in Oran on the Algerian coast. The official British pretext for the action was to stop the French fleet falling into German hands. The « unofficial » pretext was to prove to the Americans that Britain itself was not sunk and worthy of military aid from the States – namely an entire fleet of First World war American naval ships, mothballed in US military ports. Britain needed ships, and the US Congress wanted some kind of sign that Britain was capable of putting up some kind of a fight. So, the Royal Navy sailed down to Oran on the Algerian coast and sank the French fleet – killing a couple of thousand French sailors in the process. Here is the quirk of history – at the end of the action; the British had actually killed more French sailors than they had German sailors by that point in the war.

And what about Sétiff – one of those dark sides of French history that ex-pats uncover, then quiz their French friends and neighbours about. Don’t be surprised if the French don’t want to talk about it.

May 8th 1945 in the Algerian town of Sétiff. French and Algerians alike are celebrating VE day. Thousands of native Algerians fought for France during WW2 – some in the ranks of the French Army, many in the ranks of the « African Army. » Algerian soldiers served in Italy but also spearheaded the Allied landings at St Raphael and Fréjus in the south of France on August 23rd 1944. Algerian, Tunisian and Moroccan troops fought alongside the French right into Germany. As the celebrations continue at Sétiff – some « nationalist » elements amongst the Algerians choose to unfurl « Algerian » flags. This enflames feeling with French and European residents and a massive riot ensues. The riots officially cost the lives of 102 « Europeans » and 900 « Muslims ». In the following days, there are riots in may town across Algeria – all are brutally put down by French forces and in the ensuing weeks the actions continued, with the French even using their air force to bomb some villages. Reports put the number of victims of the repression anywhere between 15,000 and 45,000. This is where the Algerian War began (and the French don’t like to talk much about that either)

As ex-pats, you have to get past Napoleon, the French Revolution, Louis XIV and things of this ilk – it is good to study them, but I think ex-pats owe it to themselves to come to terms with that history of their chosen land of exile with which the natives have not yet come to terms. Though of course nothing annoys a native more than a smart arsed non-native who knows his country’s history better than the native

And finally – by way of a conclusion to this very Sixth form essay-style post – some thoughts on the teaching of history.

A few years back, I undertook a Masters degree in history at Tours University. After a few months I gave it up as a bad job, so annoyed at the teaching methods; from primary school to university, French kids don’t learn historical facts; they just learn how to study history. About a year ago, I went to a Parent Teachers evening at my daughter’s school. The history teacher didn’t talk so much about history at school as schools of history. French kids are very much taught and empirical method to apply to the study of history rather than the facts. They are taught how to think. In the UK, the school approach to history teaching is far more factual. You learn the facts and then you learn a model to analyse the causes and consequences. The result is that many English know their history but don’t know why and French kids know nothing about their history, but they possess the intellectual wherewithal to analyse events.

Now back in my Masters the history teacher used to say « in history, there are no facts, there are no events, there are just a collection of proven or unproven happenings to which we might be able to a apply an analytical model. »

Years later, having read around the question, I can see that this empirical approach wasn’t necessarily flawed, but in the school model, I think that this is too, heavy to lay on a young teenage mind. First learn the fact, events or happenings and then rake back over the general knowledge for an analysis, then try to apply it to contemporary happenings.

Then of course comes the issue of evaluation (which annoys me greatly). In class, my daughter is assessed on her knowledge of the facts (dates, figures etc) then come exam time, she gets a stimulus question that assesses her ability to think.

In short, British kids know far more about their historical and can basically piece together the history of their country, whereas French kids know bugger all about the history of France, but they can « think around »

An example. Were VII French, we wouldn’t learn about his wives and the Reformation, but we would learn about why he did what he did, without knowing precisely what he did.

So? I guess it is time to sign off, because within the culinary history of this house, we are eating fish fingers tonight and they are ready to eat. Why are we eating fish fingers – who knows. We all hate fish but we still persist. Oh, I await the day, when an archaeologist digs me up and they analyse the contents of my stomach. « Why did this man eat fish fingers ???? »

A strange statistic revealed in poll this weekend – 12.5% of French people (at least those questioned for the survey) never wash their hands after going to the toilet. The survey, comissioned by a major manufacturer of personal hygiène products, The French are a nation of handshakers – friends, neighbours, work colleagues – the standard daily greeting is a « bonjour » and a handshake. Statistically therefore roughly one in ten French people you greet might just have had their hand up their bottom a few minutes before. I put this fact to a friend yesterdayn who assured me that he always washes his hands « in the toilet. » Bizarre practise – I just hope he flushes beforehand. I of course set my friend right on his error.

The soapy survey has also come up with a couple of other handwashing facts, such as 55% of the French never wash their hands after using public transport whilst 24% of people wash their hands a staggering 10 times a day.

Monday 6th May

It was a rare moment – Monday morning walking barefoot in the grass – a luxuriant green carpet – the delicious feeling of dew fresh blades tingling between my toes – also a slight pang of guilt as I wander round the sweet smelling spring garden whilst the rest of the world is at work, slaving away in their offices, shops and factories. Let them slave. I need this moment to drive away the last vestiges of winter blues. This is a time for renewal. Somehow I can feel the earth’s energy rise within me. It’s is rare for me to be in such vital sensorial skin contact with nature.

Don’t worry, this isn’t my normal Monday morning wont, I too am normally « slaving away », today though, I have taken a bridging day- or as the French say « Je fais le pont » - a common Gallic practice whereby weary workers take a day of their official annual leave to « bridge » a gap between two public holidays – and May is full of public holidays.

In Britain it is the May Bank Holiday, and listening to the BBC this morning, there have been the usual « business types » on the morning news programme lamenting the number of public holidays in the UK. From their dismal discourse it would seem that public holidays are responsible in part for the UK’s economic wrack and ruin.

What would those economic experts make of the French scenario – in France, May is nothing but public holidays. Starting with May Day itself – workers’ playtime, there are then three other public holidays. On May 8th we all get the day off to celebrate or remember the end of World War Two in Europe. Following this we have Ascension Day and then the Whitsun Bank Holiday.

In France though, you get the holiday on the day it falls, meaning that if the specific day falls on a Saturday or Sunday, then you lose out. Thankfully this year, May 8th is a Wednesday. Ascension Day is on Thursday May 9th and May 1st also feel on a Wednesday. May is also the month when French workers have to use up any spare leave that they may not have taken, for the simple reason that annual holiday allowance for all workers runs from May to May. Workers who have not used up their untaken leave by May 31st quite simply lose it. I guess you can imagine the scenario. Half empty work places – especially this week – Wednesday 8th and Thursday 9th are public holidays. Many workers (myself included) have taken the Monday and Tuesday off – many employers (mine included) have graciously given their workers the Friday off as well – a whole week off for only two days of leave taken.

Needless to say, when French workers study the calendar wondering when to take their holidays, the first month they turn to is May. When public holidays fall midweek it’s possible to get early a fortnight off by only taking four or five days out of one’s annual leave. Many workers deliberately save up days – taking less time off at Christmas or in the summer, sot hey can benefit from a long may break, and if the weather is as glorious as this morning …

Back in the garden, everything is literally « blooming » lovely. The Wisteria is in full flow, The lilac bushes are heavy with their intoxicating white and pink flowers, and gazing at the strawberry, it is a sea of white flowers – should get a good crop this year.

I feel not the slightest qualm of guilt in my barefoot meanderings – it is actually very rare that I enjoy such moments up the garden path – I seem to spend more time in the garden working than I do relaxing. This mad barefoot brevity therefore is simply me, enjoying the fruits of my hard weekend labour. For sure there shall be more barefoot moments

Spring and the onset of some reasonable weather and a few public holidays (in France at least) – ‘Tis the time to undertake home improvement projects which will

1) either remain unfinished until next Spring
2) be so badly done that you will have to call in a professional to make them right
3) be simply an excuse to get together with your mates and drink enough beer to sink a battleship
4) be completed on time and with a quality finish because you possess the tools, the time and the knowhow o do the job properly

For reference sake, this post is wrtitten by a male who cannot weild a power tool and cannot even bang a nail in a piece of wood without losing his temper.(I dream of being Mike Delphino without getting shot.)

Power Tools (saws, drills, sanders, screwdrivers etc) mowers, hedge trimmers, steam wallpaper strippers – the essential accoutrements, some might say even toys, for the modern-man-about the house.

I’m not much good at DIY and I certainly no great fan of gardening, but I do have a selection of the above items, sitting in my garage and ready for occasional use. I drill very few holes in the course of any one-year, but it is always good to have an electric drill handy.

The drill in question cost around 100 Euros, which; at the time I purchased it was about £70. I would call the drill a « medium purchase » and seeing how little I have use dit over the last ten years, it is still in reasonable condition.

Now, here is a thought. What about if I had bought the drill just for one job, carefully removed it from the packaging, done the job in question, cleaned up the drill and the bit, then taken it back to the shop claiming:

a) This drill doesn’t work
b) The drill you sold me has actually already been used.

Either way, I would have asked for my money back, or asked for a credit note with which I may have purchased a sander – brought it home and done exactly the same i.e. use it for the duration of the job, taken it back to the shop and exchanged it for a saw on the same pretext as before.

This concept is alien to me. Had I not the cash to buy tools, the space to keep them, or even the call to use hem regularly, I might have considered renting them from a tool hire shop, or, I would have used another solution, buying a tool in common with several friends with the ail of sharing it and also cutting the cost.

In a recent conversation with a friend, who has just bought a flat and is in the process of doing jobs that require power Tools, the friend in question informed me that in purchasing power Tools, he favours the « use it once, clean it up and take it back solution ».

I greeted this solution with all due disbelief, only to be told that it is very common, and in fact tat the DIY stores he goes to, everyone does it. It is apparently a national phenomenon in the UK.

« It happens all the time » says my friend. « All the stuff you buy is stuff that has been taken back to the shop. You can tell by the way the boxes have been resealed. »

Conclusion – no one in the UK is actually buying power Tools and DIY stores are no more than tool hire shops.

« It even works for flooring. » adds my friend

Does this mean that people buy a floating parquet, or lino, lay it, walk on it for a few years, then before they move, they clean it, rip it up and take it back to the shop in whatever packaging is left saying « ‘Scuse me mate, but we bought the wrong flooring » or even « this flooring is faulty ». Presumably there is some kind of guarantee on flooring (can’t say I’ve ever bothered to look, I just lay the stuff and walk on it for a few years) – so you have to rip it all up before the guarantee expires.

Is this really happening?

The friend informs me that the taking of items back to the shop and expecting a full refund doesn’t work on paint.

« ‘Scuse me mate, we used half the tin before we realised it was the wrong colour . »

Which brings me to lawnmowers

Friend in question has a garden (not sure of the size). He informs me that « you can get a flymo for thirty quid. »

A real Flymo for thirty quid? Pull the other one.

« Yeah, straight up. »

So, my friend is buying a Flymo, which, after cutting the grass, he will clean up and take back to the shop.

« Yes but, your grass will grow and you’ll need to cut it again. » I observe,

« So, I’ll get a refund, then when I need a mower, I’ll go and buy a new one. » Which he will then take back to the shop when finished.

As for the thirty pound refund, he will use this to buy another tool, which, when finished he will take back to the shop, get a refund, which he will spend on a mower.

« That’s loony » I say

« Everyone’s doing it. No one can afford Tools in Britain. There’s no jobs. »

So, Flymo prices. I must first say that the average French gardener is most sceptical about Flymos, and electric mowers in general. I needed to buy a new mower a couple of years ago. I fancied a flymo. There were however few to be had. Asking the vendor why, he explained that people didn’t like them and they didn’t trust a mower without a Wheel at each corner.

There is also the size of gardens. Most people in my neck of the woods have large gardens and they like the good old motor mower. Those with smaller gardens will have something electric, but with wheels. We just don’t do Flymo.

As for the price. The smallest, most basic Flymo in France starts at 70 Euros (without grass box) – the top of the range model weighs (or hovers) in at 170 Euros (prices including VAT from the official Flymo website)
I told this to my friend who then suggested I buy a flymo in the UK on my next visit. Use it for a few months, then clean it up and bring t back on a later visit, take it to the shop and exchange it for a new one, or just get my money back.

My friend says he can’t afford to buy all the Tools he needs to decorate his flat; neither can he afford a mower. He says this is commonplace in Britain.

« Out here we buy mowers » I say

« Ah yes, but France has been less hit by the recession. You have a large public sector and people are still working in real jobs. Out here there are no jobs and no money. »

The sales of mowers in France, and their large price differential with the UK, would therefore be explained in part by the 5 million French men and women who are working in public service jobs. Hmmmmm. One to ponder.

True, France was generally acknowledged to have weathered the world recession just a little better thanks to the 5 million civil servants who kept their jobs and kept making and spending money. We all carried on shopping and consuming and France didn’t totally sink into an economic quagmire.

I am still not sure about the lawnmower argument though. Just to say that Flymos are more expensive in France.

Just a bit of consternation about life in Britain. How do people survive?

I quote one friend who earns £50k per year. She has trouble meeting the monthly mortgage payments on her two up two down terraced house in south London. Another friend who is roughly on the same salary cannot afford to come to France with her car on holiday. She is still coming to France, but minus the car. And another friend with a half decent job in communications – she takes in lodgers to make ends meet.

Out here, we always stare across the Channel in « gobsmacked » awe at the salaries people are supposed to earn in the UK. I conclude from recent conversations that it is not true. I presume if everyone lives like my DIY friend, you are all taking half eaten food back to the shops on the strength that half has been eaten and « I didn’t like the rest ». Perhaps people are saving up dead mice or cockroaches, to deliberately put them in half eaten food. « Sorry mate, can’t eat this, there’s a dead mouse in the tin. »

Is it that bad in blighty? Tell me I’m wrong, or tat my friend is just a little dysfunctional.

More warm weather forecast in France this weekend, so definitely time to fire up the BBQ. Come early Sunday afternoon, the air will be thick with the gorgeous aroma of grilling meat.

So, what do the French shove on their barbies?

Standard is pork chops and sausages – chipolatas and the spicy North African sausage – the Merguez. I’ve seen that you can now actually buy these in the UK supermarkets; there are even some UK butchers who will make them up for you. Merguez – due to their North African origin, contain no pork. Lamb or beef are standard fillings, and they make a good change from the traditional chipolata.

The French are not actually a great sausage culture. They don’t have the same variety of sausages that you get in the UK. Apart from the aforementioned French sausage types, I can only think of tow (or three) other national sausages.

The Chipolata with herbs (normally provençal herbs)

The Saucisse de Toulouse – a very thick pork sausage which is not unlike a Cumberland Ring

The Andouillette – which is a tripe sausage. It smells heavenly when cooking but, when cut and smelled at close quarters, the « inside » odour is not unlike a sweaty jockstrap. Eat your andouillette with parsimony; they can give you painful indigestion.

Other standard BBQ fare – meat skewers – beef, pork, lamb or chicken on wooden skewers.

A standard supermarket BBQ pack will contain all of the above.

If your BBQ watchword is quality rather than quantity, take a trip to your local butcher’s. He will make you up a BBQ pack with a couple of days notice – though you’ll be paying at least twice the supermarket price.

I can’t really remember what the Brits eat at BBQs. I have memories of beef burgers, sausages and chicken. Why do people try to roast whole chickens on BBQs? It takes ages. By the time the chicken is ready to eat, all your guests are ready to go home.

Something to drink?

This being France, you might have thought that we would all be downing litres of vintage wine with our burned offerings. Sorry to disappoint you folks, but even in France, we now have the « bag in a box » or wine box. However awful the contents, I suppose the wine box does have one advantage over the traditional bottle - you have inexhaustible and very accessible, tabletop supply of supermarket plonk, no fumbling round with corkscrews and no trips to the bottle bank the next day.

And now to BBQ types

We’ve got gas powered, electric and the traditional charcoal type. Gas BBQs have the advantage that they don’t use charcoal, but they are always enormous affairs and you need somewhere to store them. As for electric – do you really fancy taking all that flex out into the garden? Finally charcoal ???

Well, every summer, articles appear in the press telling us that BBQ charcoal is treated with cancer-giving chemicals that make it burn more easily. The stuff is also difficult. I know that you should put dry wood and twigs and stuff on top to get a fire going, then bung the charcoal in after, but that always takes ages, so, like everyone else, I squirt fire lighting chemicals on the charcoal to get it burning quicker.

There are those who use the BBQ as an excuse to get rid of all their old wastepaper – newspapers or those annoying leaflets/flyers/brochures that clog up your letterbox. Hey shove them on the barbie and burn them up to get the charcoal burning. That’s bad. I suppose the worst is when you get a smoker to light the barbie, and they throw their cigarette butts into the flames. And sometimes you get a combination of all three – firelighters, wastepaper and cigarette butts – yum yum.

I abandoned BBQs a few years ago.

Several reasons

1 – the logistics of getting everything into the garden. I don’t have a kitchen that opens on to the garden; they are in fact at opposite ends of my property. Getting everything outside for a BBQ is frankly a logistic pain in the arse, and if I forget everything, it means constant running back and forth. Of course once you’ve got everything outside, at some point you’ve got to bring it all in again – et another logistical bum ache.

4 -Finally, I abandoned BBQs because the « chef » literally does spend his entire evening « slaving over a hot stove » and he (or she) (though as we know, cooking at the BBQ is a male preserve – a chance to show virility and cooking skills). No sooner have you finished grilling up one set of chops and sausages than you have to start on another … and does anyone want to help you cook? Hell No. Why would you volunteer to slave over a hot BBQ, breathing in charcoal fumes and come away smelling like someone who had spent all day in a small room filled with chain smokers?

Of course. I do like a good BBQ, especially when someone else does it. My recommendations for decent BBQ wine and flesh? Try some duck filets washed down with a nice syrah (shiraz) rosé – and don’t forget the baked potatoes with sour cream and chives.

Exposing yourself

Exposing parts of your flesh that have been unexposed all winter. No don’t worry folks; I am not offending the rest of the human race with my multiples stomachs. I am simply wearing shorts – Yes, it is warm enough to wear shorts – and I don’t mean in the British sense, where males feel obliged to wear them as soon as the weather rises above 15°c. NO. We have got real short-wearing weather – almost 30°c outside. Just think on this – only a couple of weeks ago, vast tracts of France were covered in almost knee-high snow and now, Spring has finally sprung.

Hooray for Shorts

The state of shorts. Back when I was a kid in the 70’s, boys just didn’t do shorts. Winter or summer it was jeans. If you wore shorts at all, it would be at school for a gym lesson. Now though, shorts are in vogue – enormous baggy « combat trouser-style » shorts with pockets absolutely everywhere. Brilliant. I don’t need to take a « manbag » with me in summer – keys, cigarettes, phone and ID papers – they all go in the numerous deep pockets of my shorts. And of course, even when you think you intimately know the pocket layout of your shorts - Hey Presto, you always find a new pocket.

Up the garden path

It’s warm enough to head up the garden path and actually se if you have any garden left after a long cold and wet winter. I have heard that snow can « burn » your lawn - though I don’t have a lawn – just an expanse of green stuff that I call grass – occasionally punctuated by weeds and moss. What the hell, when you cut it all back, it looks half decent.

So, I gave the grass it’s first « haircut » of the year with my puny electric mower. It does the job and frankly I don’t want to go spending masses of my hard-earned cash on a posh mower.

Now, I like a good clean cut. I use the grass box provided with the mower to pick up the grass as I go. The « waste » grass normally goes on the compost heap, though when this has reached Himalayan proportions, I collect the grass in huge bags and take it down to the local rubbish dump – garden refuse section AND HERE is yet another joy of spring – the near weekly trips to the dump with a car loaded up to the gunnels with garden refuse. Over recent years, I have even invested huge re-usable garden refuse bags – they’re great. And once at the dump – well, you meet friends and neighbours or work colleagues, you have a chat; you compare garden refuse, refuse collection techniques or just talk about gardening. A veritable hive of social activity, almost as much fun as the supermarket on a Saturday morning.

Other joys of spring

– the smell of spring in the air, cherry blossom, dreaming of summer and of course, getting the garden furniture out of the shed, cleaning it off and setting it up in the garden, knowing full well that it is going to rain all bloody summer and you’re only ever going to be in the garden to do some gardening.

Enjoy your joys of spring.

And finally, the “not joys of spring” – setting and marking vast quantities of exams, which explains my absence from t

No time to blog, so here's a post about time.

"Summertime and the living is easy," (as Janis Joplin so beautifully sang). However, there is nothing easy with summer time in the clock sense. This is the weekend where (or when) we change time.

Now, not being the technical type, I am never too sure if we are all supposed to be putting our timepieces backwards or forwards. I just know that somewhere in deep slumber from Saturday thru Sunday, I will be getting an hour's less sleep. When the clock strikes two, on the old time, it will in fact be three on the new time, meaning that when I arise at 9am (as is my wont of a Sunday morning), it will in fact be ten o'clock thus an hour of my life will have disappeared (or will it).

There will be the same time differential with the UK. All my favourite radio programmes will still be an hour ahead, meaning that in my perturbed psychological state that everything on the BBC (mentally at least) will be two hours ahead.

Now, I am never sure why we actually bother to change time. For the past few months I have been very happy with things the that they have been, but for some outdated reason, in the months of March and October, we activate the great time switch and are forced to live through several difficult days when we don't know the time.

In real terms. When we put the clocks backwards or forwards in October, we all get an extra hour added to our lives. When the switch happens, you wake up at nine and it is actually eight. Hooray, the good Lord has extended my daily light time and lifetime existence by an hour.

In the good old days – i.e.; before 1998, the year in which the Eurocrats decided that everyone in Europe would switch time on the same day – there was a moment in October when France and Britain were on the same time. The French would switch their clocks to the winter time regime in late September, whereas the Brits wouldn’t switch until the last weekend in October. It must have played havoc for those concerned with travel timetables, for British ex-pats though, it as a four-week godsend. We could phone the folks back home at the same time as we would phone friends in France, and in the pre-internet world, you could get radio programmes at the same time as they were going out in the UK.

Reading reports in this weekend’s press, it makes you wonder why we bother changing time at all. The switch to summer time can have serious consequences on health. For starters we all get an average of 40 minutes less sleep (though I thought we got an hour’s less sleep). The result is though, we are all just a little more tired and bleary-eyed than before. The time change is also stressful – in France, it is reckoned that the consumption of tranquilisers and anti-depressants rises by almost 20% in the days following the time change. Heart attacks are reckoned to rise by 5%. On average, the French take around ten days top adapt to the change.

In a recent poll, 45% of the French wanted to stay on summer time all year. I personally would be one of the 23.6% who wants to stay on winter time all year. I’m not so fussed about having an hour’s extra daylight time on a summer evening, but I would rather have an extra hour in bed in the winter. (Purely psychological).

Since mid-winter’s day – February 2nd, we have been heading « towards the light » (nothing religious here). For the past couple of weeks, I have been getting up and going to work in the daylight. Now that we are all going to put the clocks forward (yes I have finally worked out that we are putting the clocks forwards and not backwards), I will be heading off to work in the dark again, for the net three weeks at least. I suppose though, if we stayed in winter time all year, it would be daylight even earlier in summer, and I’d be writing a post complaining about the fact.

Now (here’s a thing) The Brits introduced the winter time and summer time thing during World War Two – all something to do with saving energy. In Occupied France, the French worked on German time that was an hour ahead. Come the Liberation and the end of the War in 1945, General de Gaulle abandoned what he called « Berlin time » and went back to French time, which was the same time all year round. It was French president, Valery Giscard d’Estaing who reintroduced the summer time / winter time thing back in 1975 – a, energy-saving measure during the oil crisis. The thing is, that the time switch isn’t particularly energy efficient. Recent statistics reveal that in France, the total national energy save resulting from the time change is 0.5% - we are all consuming just half a percent less energy in summer than we do in winter. I guess that’s because we all have more energy-guzzling gadgets nowadays. Back in 1975, your average French family would only have one TV (with two channels) –everyone would live more or less in the same room. Now we have screens in every room and of an evening we all seem to lead separate lives in different rooms – more screens, more light, more heat AND WHY do shops have to keep their lights on all night – there’s no one out shopping.

Losing time, gaining time. We never have enough time, and when we do have time, we never seem to know how to fill it. Messrs Waters and Gilmour of Pink Floyd, sand the following in their song « Time »

Ticking away the moments
That make up a dull day
Fritter and waste the hours
In an off-hand way

But as you grow older, time is of the essence. You have less and less of the stuff.

And you run and you run
To catch up with the sun
But it's sinking

Plans that either come to naught
Or half a page of scribbled lines

For David Bowie (who at 66 has less time than before) time was …

Time - He's waiting in the wings
He speaks of senseless things
His script is you and me boys

Time - He flexes like a whore
Falls wanking to the floor
His trick is you and me, boy

I guess with advancing years I am in the Pink Floyd phase.

Of course, time is often not our own. Just how much we get is decided by others. Trawling through the net, I came up with this little gem. The greatest time robbery of all time.

« Britain and the British Empire (including the eastern part of what is now the United States) adopted the Gregorian calendar in 1752, by which time it was necessary to correct by 11 days. Wednesday, 2 September 1752 was followed by Thursday, 14 September 1752. »

Robbed of eleven days. What I didn’t know though was that we work on the Gregorian calendar – and I thought we were still on the Julian calendar.

These rambling time thoughts also bring me to current French education reform concerning the length of the school day. The powers-that-be want to shorten the school day (hooray less time in the class room) – to compensate the differential though, they also want to shave two weeks off the summer vacation – this is a complex issue that is currently a bit of a temporal hot potato.

And now my blog time is up.

PS ever noticed that in all those adverts for posh watches, the hands are always fixed at ten past ten. Why????

So, there I was this week, downtown. Freshly emerged from the barbershop with my recently trimmed, and now very cold head. A sharp gust of wind on the back of my newly shaven neck, where previously curly locks had flowed. The wind gusted up the back of my neck and then round my ears. I pulled my cap down as far as I could, but it was meagre protection against the sub zero, unseasonal mid-March blast.

I suppose that I should consider myself lucky. At the grand old age of 47, I still have a full and luxuriant head of hair, even if quite a bit of it seems to be going grey, and, in the weather stakes, I only have a chill afternoon wind to deal with, whilst the major part of northern France is covered in thick, unseasonal snow. Thousands of homes without electricity, motorists marooned in their cars for two days and everywhere from Lille down to Paris has ground to a freezing and snowy halt. In Paris itself, the black ice was so bad, that people living in the heart of the capital were asked to « take care » when walking to work.

Let us divest this post of overcharged language and just say that I have had my hair cut, it’s bloody freezing, but I’m not having it as bad as the poor buggers in Northern France who have been snowed in for days.

Now, next week marks the official beginning of spring. The weather, of course does not follow the temporal logic of our good old Julian calendar.

I digress

The main subject of this post was supposed to be spring-cleaning.

First – the verb to « spring clean » - A student this week asked why we never say « sprung cleaned »? A very valid question

« Because you are not actually springing and cleaning together, the term merely means cleaning for spring. » (Though it could also the mean the cleaning of springs as in a spring clean to obtain a clean spring.)

So, once I had sprung cleaned my crowning glory, I thought it was high time to turn to other cleaning and clearing out. Did I attend to the pile of books, papers and general crap that I seem to have accumulated? No, too much like hard work. I decided to do something far more futile, clean out my record collection.

There are two categories of cds for « cleaning »

Firstly all those that bought because it seemed like a good idea at the time

Secondly, all those of which I have most of the songs in double. This category mostly concerns compilation or « Greatest hits » albums.

An example of the first category

Fleet Foxes – the first album. I knew it was kind of folksy and liked the Breughel painting on the front cover. Oh wow, what a disappointment. Pretty much the same as Mumford & Sons « Sigh no more » - this was a Mercury Prize winner. Now, I know you should never buy an album based simply on the cover, however it is as good a criteria as any for buying a record. He last CD I bought on this irrational principle was « El Camino » by the Black Keys – what a brilliant record

Other examples of « bad buys »

Bird Paula – Give into love
Kate Bush – 50 words for snow
James Blunt – Back to Bedlam
Ayo – Joyful
The Foals – Antidotes
The Stone Roses – Sally Cinnamon

There are other albums by Yael Naim, Beck, The Levellers, C2C and Bruno Mars.

Yeah I was quite surprised too. I thought « Unorthodox Jukebox » would be a winner. Mr Mars has overtones of Terrence Trent d’Arby and even Roachford, but the album was a disappointment. One decent single « Locked out of Heaven », followed by nine lack lustre songs that are just a little too redolent of Michael Jackson for my liking.

So, the second category – the stuff I have on several Cds.

For example, a Kinks compilation. I have two – the good one with Waterloo Sunset and the crap one without the song. Also getting cleaned out is a Jimmy Hendrix compilation, entitled « the best of the rest » - the « Best of America » compilation is also going. I knew I should have avoided this one – the group’s greatest hit « A horse with no name » is only featured as a live version.

Anyway, you get the idea

Finally, I am wondering whether to get rid of some Bowie albums ????

Namely – « Hours » « Heathen Chemistry » and his 2003 offering « Reality » - not the best that Mr Bowie has ever made.

Of course, before parting with these albums, I have fed the best tracks into my i pod.

I actually quite like the idea of a trimmed down record collection, just a couple of hundred « essential » and referential Cds that encapsulate the best of classic rock, pop and folk. I suppose I’d call this a collection of « milestone records »

Anyway, it was off down to our local branch of « Cash Converters »(CC) that I went, clutching a heavy bag, full of Cds.

Now, I am fully aware of CC’s policy, whereby they give you bugger all money or even less for the worldly possessions you are trying to sell them, but I reckon if I can clear even a few meagre pennies for my Cds, it is always better than giving them away.

The pittance I finally get for my Cds, depends of course on whether CC actually want them. A couple of weeks ago, I took down an old cassette tape deck – the young man behind the counter just laughed and told me to throw it out. It was the same case with a large bag of videocassettes I took down. « I’ll never sell them. » he says, adding that he’s even started refusing DVDs – CC customers only want Bluray nowadays.

So, there I am, sitting in the CC waiting room. There is a good cross section of humanity in there. A very middle class lady with a large bag of children’s’ books and board games. A shifty-looking guy with a couple of Smart phones, and some « poor » people, selling a DVD player and a huge flat screen TV.

(Oh dear. It is very unpolitically correct to say poor – I KNOW – slap on the wrist – BUT you know these people are poor – their kids have all the latest gadgets, hey are wearing cheap and cheerful fashion and, as the dad explains to the CC vendor – they are selling to telly to get a more up to date model) WELL FOLKS, this is the world of Cash Convertors – the poor are on one side, selling their appliances and consumer durables, whilst the CC shop is full of the middle class, looking for a cheap TV.

To cut a long story short, the CC man doesn’t want any Cds. « No one buys Cds anymore, » he tells me. « If you’ve got any vinyl though … that’s very trendy at the moment. »

No matter. I might try and flog the Cds at a Car Boot sale or I might give some of the less obscure ones to our local Library.

And the moral to all this? Download, don’t buy. BUT I LIKE MY Cds – I want tangible music and not just an MP3 or an i-pod. My idea of a record collection is not based on how many tunes I can get on my phone. Sure, « miniaturisation » is a good idea. Think of all those holidays of old, when you had to take stacks of tapes or Cds with you. Now, you just stick 4000 songs or so on a music player, shove into a dock and … WOW.

The other day, I showed my daughter an old Sony Walkman – « It’s huge ! » she exclaimed. And what about the cassettes – oh dear, they look « complicated » she said.

I have to admit, that I still have cassettes, and vinyl and even a strange Sony format – the Minidisc. I’m not sure whether to keep, sell, give or just throw away. I guess I might just as well keep them all and open a museum of old technology OR, I might wait until the next wave of media-fuelled nostalgia. Perhaps in a couple of years, the guy at Cash Converters will be on his knees and begging for my cassettes. (Dream on)

Personal mobility; A God given right?

Wrong.

Motoring is fast becoming a luxury.

Sure we can’t survive without our cars, nowadays though, you think twice about going somewhere by car.

We are however a « car culture ».

Take my small town as an example. Parking in the centre of town is limited. It is expensive. It is far easier to drive out to the « Edgelands » and do your shopping. Vast superstores miles away from the centre of town, offering far more choice than downtown shops and all stores come with free parking. I won’t say that my downtown is totally dead, but it is certainly in its death throes.

Without considering the impact of modern motoring on urban development, I now think twice about trundling into town with my car.

The price of petrol apart, parking prices in my town have increased by ten percent during the last year. Now, I know that we don’t always pay our parking. We all take our chances.

You’re only in town for a few minutes. Why slip your hard-earned pennies in the parking metre? There are no police or traffic wardens about; you might just get away without a ticket.

For years and years, I would never pay parking charges in town. I always considered that shopping in town was my way of supporting local business, why should I pay for my parking space, when the purpose of my visit was to give my money to local business?

So, now we come to the serious point.

The French government are all set to double parking fines.

As things stand, I pay just over a Euro for an hour’s parking in my town (Yes I can hear you laughing – our local parking charges are peanuts) – However, If I don’t slip a Euro in the metre and display a valid ticket, the fine is 17 Euros. I have 45 days to pay my fine. Failure to do so within this period will result in my fine being doubled. Failure to pay the double fine within the following 45 days will result in a Court summons.

Anyway, in the past few days, the French government have made it known that they will be doubling all parking fines. My first 17 Euro misdemeanour will now be costing me 35 Euros.

To give you some kind of picture – 17 Euros is roughly the price of 3 packets of cigarettes. If you are not a smoker, 17 Euros is the price of a best-selling novel down your local bookshop. 35 Euros on the other hand will buy you a reasonable dinner with a half bottle of wine in a local restaurant.

Increased parking charges are a sign of the times. Everyone needs money. However, my bone of contention concerns the final destination of my fine money.

When writing a cheque for my parking fine, on that line reserved for the payee, I write the words « trésor public » - You see, that when I pay my fine, the money doesn’t go to the local authorities, it goes directly to central government. For sure, the local authorities do eventually get a percentage of the money, but most of the cash goes straight into the pocket of the Paris-based central government.

Central government will of course argue that the money I have paid will be used for « national road improvement projects » but, I would prefer for my money to be spent locally.

I suppose though, that were it down to my local authority to set the levels of fines, they might be even higher - our local council is currently running a 140 million Euro debt.

So, where will all the money go?

Money raised from the increase in parking fines has been earmarked to finance a new, multi billion Euro public transport scheme for Paris and the Ile de France region (Call this Paris and the greater Paris region) – New metro lines, tram lines and rail links to the city’s airports – all to be financed with the raise.

Soon, if I receive a parking fine in my part of small town France, the money will go to finance public transport in the nation’s capital.

I have nothing against Paris, it is a beautiful city. I have nothing against the Parisians. Why though, should I be paying for their public transport?

Imagine asking the good citizens of Manchester to pay for improved public transport in London? Most Mancunians loathe Londoners. The French equivalent of this most acrimonious of relationships would be the mutual loathing between Paris and the southern city of Marseilles.

Well, from now on, I shall be paying my parking space. I would rather slip 1,10 Euros in the parking metre than pay a 35 Euro fine to help the Parisian have a better transport. Besides, when I do pay my parking space, he money goes directly to my town.

From parking fines to fuel prices.

There are roughly 40 million motorists in France (so this probably means that there are just as many cars) most drivers fill up once a week for an average price of just over 30 Euros. In France we have three choices of fuel at the pump – two star and four star unleaded petrol – which in France is classified by its octane content 95 for 2 star and 98 for 4 star – we also have diesel. A staggering two thirds of French cars run on diesel, and with good reason, a litre of diesel at the pump is on average 20 Euro centimes cheaper than a litre of petrol.

In most other European countries, diesel is more expensive, and in some cases, finding a petrol station with a diesel pump is almost an impossible task. Last summer, on a motoring holiday in Italy, almost half the petrol stations we visited did not have diesel.

So, why the French penchant for diesel? Well, as I said, the stuff is cheaper than petrol, but also you (supposedly) get more mileage out of a litre of diesel than you do from a litre of petrol.

Around ten to fifteen years ago, only one third of French cars ran on diesel, however during the Nineties an the Noughties, successive governments ran scrappage schemes to try and get as many petrol cars off the road as possible. Well, petrol (although unleaded) was dangerous. Petrol fumes were far more harmful than diesel fumes, so via a system of generous « cashbacks » motorists were encouraged to trade in their old petrol guzzling cars for « cleaner » diesel cars. At the height of the scrappage schemes, anyone owning a petrol driven car over eight years old, could trade it in for a brand new diesel car and get a 1000 Euro cashback, generally given in the form of a reduction on the new car. Many dealerships often doubled the premium. The results were twofold. Not only did we all buy diesel cars, but also we bought small « economical » cars.

All this is now having repercussions on the French second hand car market. There is a surfeit of small compact diesel cars, and also anyone trading in such a car is getting peanuts for it, because there are so many of them around.

In recent days, the French government announced that it was thinking of aligning diesel prices on petrol prices. The new brought immediate howls of anguish from the nation’s drivers, car dealers and manufacturers.

After fifteen years of getting us all to convert to diesel on the grounds that it was safer than petrol, where was the logic in the decision. Well, government scientists now say diesel particles are as dangerous as petrol fumes, in fact, petrol is possibly safer.

Cynics say that the move to bring diesel prices into line with petrol prices has nothing to do with environmental concerns. An overnight 20 Euro centime hike in diesel prices will rake in billions of Euros in fuel duty for the government. Just imagine nearly 25 million motorists suddenly paying anywhere between 10% to 15% more for their litre of diesel. Of course there is still the argument that diesel will take you further than petrol.

I’m not sure if the hike in diesel prices will be enough to provoke yet another French revolution. Rest assured though, French motorists will be taking to the street to demonstrate.

Finally, to the subject of speed cameras.

After increases in parking fines and fuel prices and a 2,6% increase in motorway tolls, if you can actually still afford to drive anywhere, then beware of the new generation of police speed cameras, deployed on the nation’s roads for the first time last week. The new generation detection devices are of course more accurate than the previous one. The major difference though is that the new cameras can be used « on the move » and unlike the speed cameras of old, the new ones will be fitted in and operated from unmarked police cars.

Take my advice folks; just leave the car at home.

In these hard times, we are all having to cut back or trim down. Many european governments have introduced draconian austerity measures. On the advice of my Better Half, I am about to do the same.

« You’re fat » says the wife, as we’re sitting up in bed one night reading.

I call this an unprovoked attack, my Better Half calls it « speaking her mind »

« I’m not fat» I protest, nibbling on my fourth square of plain chocolate.

« Ok, You’re not fat » she says, soothingly. « You’re just a little overweight. »

Yes, I have to admit that the wife is right (as usual)

Mopping up my gravy with thick hunks of French bread, and then hacking off huge slices of creamy French cheese to finish off the bread that I have left after soaking up my gravy. Dinner ain’t dinner without a désert and it’s all washed down with a couple of glasses of wine. And there are always sweet cravings before bedtime.

« I work it all off when I go to the gym » I argue

« Is that the gym you haven’t been to for nearly six months ? » (ouch that hurt)

« Anyway » carries on my wife and conscience, « you are doing the wrong kind of sport. You should be running, not sitting on a rowing machine, besides rowing is bad for your knees. »

I secretly push my bar of chocoalte under the bed in a well concealed but guilty gesture.

« So, I’m not obese. »
« No. »
« I’m just a little overweight. »
« You are developing a belly – a rather large spare tyre »

I knew things we’re bad last summer. We were on the beach. My daughter was indicating my presence to one of her new-found holidays friends, who refreed to me as « your dad, that fat bloke over there. » (AAAAAAGH)

I have always been quite happy with the skin I’m in, though I will now admit that there is more of me in the skin than before. I have never really thought of my body as a temple, of course, I have always hoped it would attract admiring glances from females who might like to use it as a place of worship.

In the adulation stakes I don’t think I’ve got much chance of any sacrificual rituals on my bodily altar. I’m less of a temple and more of a decaying Church at the moment. Mind you, much as I like those holiday brochure photos of ancient Greek temples on the shores of the Med at Sunset, I’ve always thought of myself more as an English country Church.

Meanwhile, back at the « spare tyre » reference, I am reminded of an old blues number penned by Willie Dixon « I’m built for comfort, not for speed »

Some folk built like this, some folk built like that
But the way I'm built, Don't you call me fat
Because I'm built for comfort, I ain't built for speed
But I got everything all that a good girl need.

I have to face it. I’ve got to lose a few pounds, and I’m going to have to make sacrifices. Just because I’m nearrer fifty than forty, there is no excuse for having a belly.

The other cruel thing about advancing years, (oh god, I’m talking like I’v got one foot in the grave) is the réalisation that you can’t dress like a teeanger any more. My body says I’m 47, but the rest of me is still stuck in my late teens and early twenties – like most blokes I daresay.

There are those men that are born old and stay old.

There are others who try to recapture their lost youth at the first sign of advancing years. Getting grey hair is a good excuse to get a motorbike or try and form a rock and roll band with some like-minded mates.

And there are blokes like me, who have never really grown up. To the sartorial chagrin of our spouses, we have always worn, hoodies, jeans and sneakers. I am a bad case, I still buy Rock and Roll T shirts, in the mistaken belief that they are cool.

And then the other day, I had a road to Damascus incident – I was pulling on a Ramones T shirt and I had the misfortune to glance at myself in the mirror. I’ll tell you something folks, I won’t be bearing my all on Rockaway Beach anytime soon.

Slim down and grow up. I guess that’s a good way to go, and I shall start tonight by only having one glass of wine instead of two.