Recuperation Is Sloo....oow
Just out of hospital I felt ready to get my act together again. But it turns out it's not quite like that. There's a period of purgatory that has to be gone through first, what the French call “le contre-choque”. You get worse before you start to get better. The fatigue I expected but not the accompanying kind of Montezuma's Revenge. Given that I've lost a chunk of colon and intestine it may seem obviously to be expected but expect it I didn't.
I mentioned this to the nurse who comes in daily to dress the wound and she asked what I was eating; all the wrong things, it seems. So, no more salad stuff, no raw vegetables and no fresh fruit other than very ripe apricots or peaches; just when the local market stalls are groaning under the weight of all this at knock-down prices. No more charcuterie either and no fatty foods. So what is allowed? Bread, potatoes, rice and grilled meat or fish, fruit compote and yoghourt. Well, I've (more or less) stuck to that for a week now and it seems to be working. The meals I eat, after passing through my stomach, no longer seem to grow spikes to let me know exactly where they are as they progress through the rest of my system. And the fatigue is going. But it does seem to be taking an inordinate amount of time.
If this sounds like a period of unmitigated misery it hasn't been. Friends have been very supportive, I cooked the gammon I've had in my freezer since Christmas, made a batch of chili jam and have just experienced what must be a record aperitif session. The ham (steeped in cider for a week) gave me a small way of paying back some of the favours I have received and was generally greeted with demands for the recipe. The chili jam has turned out even better than I hoped since I had to guess the recipe from the ingredients list on a jar I bought in England. Unfortunately it's on the doubtful list on my current diet but it will keep. The lady who comes in to do some house cleaning for me, Patricia, described it as “spécial”, meaning something like bizarre. The French generally have an aversion to chili, even in jam it seems! And the aperitif record was today. Friend Dominique invited me to “apéros” at midday to celebrate his birthday and I arrived to find tables laid out under tents and a barbecue going. I left eventually at a quarter to six, and then only because musicians were arriving and fatigue was setting in.
The surgeon who operated on me came into my room once when I was playing some Brahms on my computer. He was a fan. He wasn't familiar with the string sextets though so I've ordered a CD through Amazon and will give it to him when I return to the hospital for a check-up in 10 days' time.
Saturday, 14 August 2010
Monday, 26 July 2010
Out Of Hospital.......
Out Of Hospital.......
Hospital can be a bit of a strange country, or continent like Africa, if you are not used to it. I have to count myself lucky that my only previous experience of a hospital stay was nearly sixty years ago, a little matter of appendicitis, but that luck made the experience all the more strange.
Anyway, the operation to remove a cancerous tumour from around the join between my intestine and colon was successful and for that I have to thank the medical staff, who were uniformly (no pun intended) excellent in every way. The oncologist said that the type of cancer was hereditary and, since there is no history of that on my mother's side of the family, I presumably have my father to thank for that (though hardly his fault). He, anyway, died too soon for cancer to get him. The surgeon was confident enough of his excision to propose no further treatment.
I really have to thank my GP for discovery of a cancer that otherwise may well not have shown up for a long time. Eighteen months ago, when I had a blood clot in my leg, he insisted that it could be an early sign of cancer. I've no idea how this connection was made but it was the investigations he then instigated that led to discovery of the cancer at a very early stage. I had been hoping he would call a halt when the first investigations showed nothing but am now very glad he persisted.
The food in hospital, unfortunately, was diametrically opposed in quality to the medical staff. Maybe that was to be expected in a hospital but surely not so much in a French one. But then if you take even well cooked food, place a plastic lid over it and leave it for 10 minutes or so, the result might be the same. The stale steamed smell as I took the cover off brought back long dismissed memories of aircraft food at its worst.
But what made the greatest impression on me was my now intimate understanding of the terms “stir crazy” or “cave fever”. And that was after a stay of a mere 10 days, the first four of which were in intensive care and therefore made relatively little impact on my consciousness. My tolerance for boredom isn't generally too bad; I don't find it difficult to drift off into a reverie. However, even with my PC at my side as well as music and books, I found it very difficult to cope with 24 hours a day of relative inactivity. It's not even as though I normally lead a strenuous life; but being tied to a bed, a chair and a room (even a quite pleasant one) and for effectively a week only really did drive me close to stir crazy. It was a new experience for me and made me all the happier to be out of hospital. The feeling of the cool breeze on my face as I took my first steps outside the hospital was something I will remember for a long time.
Friends
Two brilliant friends, Steve and Jo, not only saw me to and from hospital and visited me there but organised an email round-robin to provide news of me for other friends in the village, most of whom phoned or visited. It was a wonderful idea of theirs, one that worked extremely well. I suppose that, given the number of successful web enterprises designed to bring friends and acquaintances together, it shouldn't surprise me that it worked so well. Perhaps it shows that, despite having worked virtually all my life in IT, I am not really as much in tune with the new electronic age as I should be.
I returned to find the grapes overhanging my balcony almost ripe and showing a bumper crop. I shall sit on my balcony and enjoy them this year much more than in previous years. Steve and Jo also kept my plants watered while I was away and seem determined to ensure that I recuperate as prescribed rather than in the more haphazard way that is my wont. This evening, my cursory TV viewing was interrupted by Montserrat Vilalta, a neighbour (and originally a refugee from Franco's Spain) who insisted I come to lunch with her after she has been to the Buis market on Wednesday, to see that I am properly feeding myself. She must be nearly 20 years older than me.
What it is to have friends!
Hospital can be a bit of a strange country, or continent like Africa, if you are not used to it. I have to count myself lucky that my only previous experience of a hospital stay was nearly sixty years ago, a little matter of appendicitis, but that luck made the experience all the more strange.
Anyway, the operation to remove a cancerous tumour from around the join between my intestine and colon was successful and for that I have to thank the medical staff, who were uniformly (no pun intended) excellent in every way. The oncologist said that the type of cancer was hereditary and, since there is no history of that on my mother's side of the family, I presumably have my father to thank for that (though hardly his fault). He, anyway, died too soon for cancer to get him. The surgeon was confident enough of his excision to propose no further treatment.
I really have to thank my GP for discovery of a cancer that otherwise may well not have shown up for a long time. Eighteen months ago, when I had a blood clot in my leg, he insisted that it could be an early sign of cancer. I've no idea how this connection was made but it was the investigations he then instigated that led to discovery of the cancer at a very early stage. I had been hoping he would call a halt when the first investigations showed nothing but am now very glad he persisted.
The food in hospital, unfortunately, was diametrically opposed in quality to the medical staff. Maybe that was to be expected in a hospital but surely not so much in a French one. But then if you take even well cooked food, place a plastic lid over it and leave it for 10 minutes or so, the result might be the same. The stale steamed smell as I took the cover off brought back long dismissed memories of aircraft food at its worst.
But what made the greatest impression on me was my now intimate understanding of the terms “stir crazy” or “cave fever”. And that was after a stay of a mere 10 days, the first four of which were in intensive care and therefore made relatively little impact on my consciousness. My tolerance for boredom isn't generally too bad; I don't find it difficult to drift off into a reverie. However, even with my PC at my side as well as music and books, I found it very difficult to cope with 24 hours a day of relative inactivity. It's not even as though I normally lead a strenuous life; but being tied to a bed, a chair and a room (even a quite pleasant one) and for effectively a week only really did drive me close to stir crazy. It was a new experience for me and made me all the happier to be out of hospital. The feeling of the cool breeze on my face as I took my first steps outside the hospital was something I will remember for a long time.
Friends
Two brilliant friends, Steve and Jo, not only saw me to and from hospital and visited me there but organised an email round-robin to provide news of me for other friends in the village, most of whom phoned or visited. It was a wonderful idea of theirs, one that worked extremely well. I suppose that, given the number of successful web enterprises designed to bring friends and acquaintances together, it shouldn't surprise me that it worked so well. Perhaps it shows that, despite having worked virtually all my life in IT, I am not really as much in tune with the new electronic age as I should be.
I returned to find the grapes overhanging my balcony almost ripe and showing a bumper crop. I shall sit on my balcony and enjoy them this year much more than in previous years. Steve and Jo also kept my plants watered while I was away and seem determined to ensure that I recuperate as prescribed rather than in the more haphazard way that is my wont. This evening, my cursory TV viewing was interrupted by Montserrat Vilalta, a neighbour (and originally a refugee from Franco's Spain) who insisted I come to lunch with her after she has been to the Buis market on Wednesday, to see that I am properly feeding myself. She must be nearly 20 years older than me.
What it is to have friends!
Thursday, 24 June 2010
First Day Of Summer?
Le Feu De La St Jean
Tonight was the celebration of the first day of summer, Le Feu De La St Jean. As I may well have commented before (can't be bothered to go back and check) for some reason this is not celebrated on the 21st of June (technically the first day) but on the 23rd. As it has been for the last several years except that, this year, for some reason I am not aware of, it was the 24th and not the 23rd.
Anyway, it was the usual event of the village letting its hair down in a very acceptable and agreeable way, all ages (and pets) participating. The fire is now permanently based on the river bed. The first time I witnessed this celebration, the fire was on the bridge that spans the two halves of the village and the local fireman had to put it out. Now it's down on the river bed, which affords a good view from the bridge, and always has a dry stone bank on which to burn it. And it can be left to burn itself out safely. The stone banks move every year according to how the winter “floods” have rearranged them but there is always a stone bank. This year it was in the middle of the river between two branches of water either side. Kids were down on the stonebank gleefully helping to light the fire.
I wandered amongst the villagers assembled on the bridge variously muttering "Pauvre Jeanne d'Arc" and "Que Jeanne d'Arc brule bien", getting some laughs but also some odd looks.
The entertainment was provided by two guitarists playing mostly Spanish songs and my eye was focused on two girls of about ten years old who merrily bomped away to the music, stopping occasionally to pick up younger brothers/sisters and continue bomping while carrying them. That's what I love about this event. All the family joins in and, one way or another, they all look after one another to see that they all have a good time. And kids are omni-present, not yet so locked up with computers and playstations that they can't be torn away for some more primitive entertainment.
Arriving back at my house I was waylaid by the crowd renting the house adjoining mine and invited to have a drink with them. They were an extended family of mixed Irish/Geordie background and very good company. Questions about what I was doing in Mollans gradually turned to football and we had a great time reminiscing about Chelsea and Newcastle teams of the mid-1950s through the 1960s. Milburn, Mitchell, Scoular, Harvey and Bentley, Greaves, Osgood, Hudson, Houseman, etc. Those were the days.....(my friends)...........
My question as to how they had found Mollans was answered by the appearance of Andrew and Petra, an Englishman and Dutch lady, who live in nearby Propiac and whom I had encountered from time to time but never really got acquainted with. It seems we may have various things in common, including wide travel experience, so I hope I will get to know them better.
Tonight was the celebration of the first day of summer, Le Feu De La St Jean. As I may well have commented before (can't be bothered to go back and check) for some reason this is not celebrated on the 21st of June (technically the first day) but on the 23rd. As it has been for the last several years except that, this year, for some reason I am not aware of, it was the 24th and not the 23rd.
Anyway, it was the usual event of the village letting its hair down in a very acceptable and agreeable way, all ages (and pets) participating. The fire is now permanently based on the river bed. The first time I witnessed this celebration, the fire was on the bridge that spans the two halves of the village and the local fireman had to put it out. Now it's down on the river bed, which affords a good view from the bridge, and always has a dry stone bank on which to burn it. And it can be left to burn itself out safely. The stone banks move every year according to how the winter “floods” have rearranged them but there is always a stone bank. This year it was in the middle of the river between two branches of water either side. Kids were down on the stonebank gleefully helping to light the fire.
I wandered amongst the villagers assembled on the bridge variously muttering "Pauvre Jeanne d'Arc" and "Que Jeanne d'Arc brule bien", getting some laughs but also some odd looks.
The entertainment was provided by two guitarists playing mostly Spanish songs and my eye was focused on two girls of about ten years old who merrily bomped away to the music, stopping occasionally to pick up younger brothers/sisters and continue bomping while carrying them. That's what I love about this event. All the family joins in and, one way or another, they all look after one another to see that they all have a good time. And kids are omni-present, not yet so locked up with computers and playstations that they can't be torn away for some more primitive entertainment.
Arriving back at my house I was waylaid by the crowd renting the house adjoining mine and invited to have a drink with them. They were an extended family of mixed Irish/Geordie background and very good company. Questions about what I was doing in Mollans gradually turned to football and we had a great time reminiscing about Chelsea and Newcastle teams of the mid-1950s through the 1960s. Milburn, Mitchell, Scoular, Harvey and Bentley, Greaves, Osgood, Hudson, Houseman, etc. Those were the days.....(my friends)...........
My question as to how they had found Mollans was answered by the appearance of Andrew and Petra, an Englishman and Dutch lady, who live in nearby Propiac and whom I had encountered from time to time but never really got acquainted with. It seems we may have various things in common, including wide travel experience, so I hope I will get to know them better.
Saturday, 19 June 2010
Lunches and Reminiscences of Kid's Behaviour
Lunches
On Friday I invited Steve and Jo to try out a new restaurant in the village for lunch with me. Called Chez Miche, the proprietress and cook is a woman who used to cook the lunches at The Cafe Des Sports in the village and who had evidently come to the same conclusion as we three had: that the village needed a restaurant where you could get a good but unfancy meal for a very reasonable price. Chez Miche turned out to be just that for a more than reasonable price (aperitifs, amuse-bouche, four courses, wine and coffee for around £14 per head). I think it's going to become a regular for me.
My existing standard lunch appointment is with Daniel on Saturdays. Daniel doesn't cook but often gets invited to eat with various friends and so reciprocates by buying paella from the man who sells it in the Saturday morning market and inviting friends around. This has become such a fixture that Daniel and I have decided that it has the nature of a ritual and the Gods will be displeased if the rite is not enacted every week. There could be storms, floods or plagues visited upon the village if the rite is not observed. At the moment we have none of these but the weather is nothing like as good as it should be at this time of year so we probably aren't eating enough paella.
Kids' Behaviour
On Saturday, after seeing a film “La Tête En Friche” in Vaison (a good film by the way, with something of the flavour of 84 Charing Cross Road) Daniel, Michèle, Chantal and I went to the local restaurant La Loupiote to eat. Next to us was a table with an extended family, or family and friends, that included four young girls, three by the look of them aged 11-13 and one some six years younger. On being seated, the three older girls rushed out to play outside and the youngest made to follow. She was held back by her mother to put on her anorak, as it was chilly outside. The four eventually returned to their table, the youngest holding firmly onto the hand of one of the older girls. This behaviour was repeated several times during the meal, the youngest one each time returning holding the hand of the same older girl. The older girl could have been the older sister of the youngest but, anyway, there was clearly a kind of hero worship relationship between the two.
This immediately reminded me of something I had witnessed while a teacher at Summerhill. A girl of 12/13 brought up a boy of 9/10 before the school tribunal for pestering her for attention. She wanted the pestering stopped. The assembled kids debated this and one pointed out that while the girl was undoubtedly pestered by the boy some of the time, at other times, when the girl could not play with the older girls at the school, she encouraged his attention to her. What the kids had noticed was that the girl was virtually alone at her age and between groups of girls aged two years younger and two years older. She wanted to hang out with the older ones, when included in their activities, but when excluded encouraged the hero worship of the younger boy. The kids' debate exposed this relationship and the tribunal's verdict was that they should kiss and make up. At the time, I was astounded at the perspicacity of the other kids and the wisdom of their verdict. I was sure then, and remain so to this day, that no adults would have been able to unravel the dynamic of the relationship as they had done. I was always unconvinced of A S Neill's dictum that adults are not wise enough to tell children what they should do, at least in very many instances, but in this case he was surely right.
On Friday I invited Steve and Jo to try out a new restaurant in the village for lunch with me. Called Chez Miche, the proprietress and cook is a woman who used to cook the lunches at The Cafe Des Sports in the village and who had evidently come to the same conclusion as we three had: that the village needed a restaurant where you could get a good but unfancy meal for a very reasonable price. Chez Miche turned out to be just that for a more than reasonable price (aperitifs, amuse-bouche, four courses, wine and coffee for around £14 per head). I think it's going to become a regular for me.
My existing standard lunch appointment is with Daniel on Saturdays. Daniel doesn't cook but often gets invited to eat with various friends and so reciprocates by buying paella from the man who sells it in the Saturday morning market and inviting friends around. This has become such a fixture that Daniel and I have decided that it has the nature of a ritual and the Gods will be displeased if the rite is not enacted every week. There could be storms, floods or plagues visited upon the village if the rite is not observed. At the moment we have none of these but the weather is nothing like as good as it should be at this time of year so we probably aren't eating enough paella.
Kids' Behaviour
On Saturday, after seeing a film “La Tête En Friche” in Vaison (a good film by the way, with something of the flavour of 84 Charing Cross Road) Daniel, Michèle, Chantal and I went to the local restaurant La Loupiote to eat. Next to us was a table with an extended family, or family and friends, that included four young girls, three by the look of them aged 11-13 and one some six years younger. On being seated, the three older girls rushed out to play outside and the youngest made to follow. She was held back by her mother to put on her anorak, as it was chilly outside. The four eventually returned to their table, the youngest holding firmly onto the hand of one of the older girls. This behaviour was repeated several times during the meal, the youngest one each time returning holding the hand of the same older girl. The older girl could have been the older sister of the youngest but, anyway, there was clearly a kind of hero worship relationship between the two.
This immediately reminded me of something I had witnessed while a teacher at Summerhill. A girl of 12/13 brought up a boy of 9/10 before the school tribunal for pestering her for attention. She wanted the pestering stopped. The assembled kids debated this and one pointed out that while the girl was undoubtedly pestered by the boy some of the time, at other times, when the girl could not play with the older girls at the school, she encouraged his attention to her. What the kids had noticed was that the girl was virtually alone at her age and between groups of girls aged two years younger and two years older. She wanted to hang out with the older ones, when included in their activities, but when excluded encouraged the hero worship of the younger boy. The kids' debate exposed this relationship and the tribunal's verdict was that they should kiss and make up. At the time, I was astounded at the perspicacity of the other kids and the wisdom of their verdict. I was sure then, and remain so to this day, that no adults would have been able to unravel the dynamic of the relationship as they had done. I was always unconvinced of A S Neill's dictum that adults are not wise enough to tell children what they should do, at least in very many instances, but in this case he was surely right.
Friday, 11 June 2010
Bread, Vinaigrette and Cousins
Bread
At the BELL (Beaumont English Language Library) celebration mentioned previously, chatting with one of the participants, I mentioned the difficulty of translating “terroir”. She was English but had lived in France a long while and spoke very good French. At first, she couldn't see my point; as she pointed out, several English words will serve. But she eventually agreed that the connotations posed a problem. It's somewhat the same way with bread. It's easily translated as “pain” but the cultural implications are then not apparent since the English don't use bread in the way that the French do. In much the same way, we don't even have to translate pasta from the Italian since we use the same word but the cultural implications are different.
For instance, my friend Daniel is totally incapable of eating a meal without bread. Serve him a stew with potatoes and dumplings and he'll still want bread. And, if a small village or hamlet in France has only one shop it will be a bakers. Fresh bread each day is a paramount requirement and the price of a basic loaf is still regulated. It reminds me of a story told me by a friend of Irish descent (yet another culture) about a dinner he cooked for his father. He cooked a spaghetti Bolognese and, on seeing the dish in front of him, his father said: “Where are the potatoes then?”
I don't think there is a solution to the problem of translating the connotations.
Vinaigrette
Vinaigrette is a similar case in point. In England I hardly ever made vinaigrette; like most other people I knew, I used salad cream. By contrast, vinaigrette is ubiquitous in France and I have yet to meet any French friends who use a ready-made variety out of a bottle; they all make their own. However, when I or others I knew in England did make vinaigrette we were far more adventurous than any of the French I have met. The vinaigrette everyone seems to make here comprises mustard, olive oil, salt, pepper and vinegar, the taste differing only according to the proportions of each. I usually add some garlic and sometimes substitute walnut oil for olive oil. Balsamic vinegar is widely available but seldom used. It seems strange to me that everyone here takes the trouble to make their own vinaigrette but no one seems to want to experiment.
Cousins
A consequence of my being part of the successful boules team was that people have been saying, kindly, that I am now a real Mollanais. Except that................I must have a cousin in Mollans to be a true Mollanais since all true Mollanais do. And what follows is some (generally ribald) banter as to who could possibly be my cousin. The point is that all true Mollanais really do seem to have a cousin (or indeed many) in the village. This, it would seem, is a consequence of a specific attitude to liaisons in the past. On the one hand it was very restrictive: keep it in the village. On the other hand, it was very free: as long as it is in the village, you can play around as much as you want.
At the BELL (Beaumont English Language Library) celebration mentioned previously, chatting with one of the participants, I mentioned the difficulty of translating “terroir”. She was English but had lived in France a long while and spoke very good French. At first, she couldn't see my point; as she pointed out, several English words will serve. But she eventually agreed that the connotations posed a problem. It's somewhat the same way with bread. It's easily translated as “pain” but the cultural implications are then not apparent since the English don't use bread in the way that the French do. In much the same way, we don't even have to translate pasta from the Italian since we use the same word but the cultural implications are different.
For instance, my friend Daniel is totally incapable of eating a meal without bread. Serve him a stew with potatoes and dumplings and he'll still want bread. And, if a small village or hamlet in France has only one shop it will be a bakers. Fresh bread each day is a paramount requirement and the price of a basic loaf is still regulated. It reminds me of a story told me by a friend of Irish descent (yet another culture) about a dinner he cooked for his father. He cooked a spaghetti Bolognese and, on seeing the dish in front of him, his father said: “Where are the potatoes then?”
I don't think there is a solution to the problem of translating the connotations.
Vinaigrette
Vinaigrette is a similar case in point. In England I hardly ever made vinaigrette; like most other people I knew, I used salad cream. By contrast, vinaigrette is ubiquitous in France and I have yet to meet any French friends who use a ready-made variety out of a bottle; they all make their own. However, when I or others I knew in England did make vinaigrette we were far more adventurous than any of the French I have met. The vinaigrette everyone seems to make here comprises mustard, olive oil, salt, pepper and vinegar, the taste differing only according to the proportions of each. I usually add some garlic and sometimes substitute walnut oil for olive oil. Balsamic vinegar is widely available but seldom used. It seems strange to me that everyone here takes the trouble to make their own vinaigrette but no one seems to want to experiment.
Cousins
A consequence of my being part of the successful boules team was that people have been saying, kindly, that I am now a real Mollanais. Except that................I must have a cousin in Mollans to be a true Mollanais since all true Mollanais do. And what follows is some (generally ribald) banter as to who could possibly be my cousin. The point is that all true Mollanais really do seem to have a cousin (or indeed many) in the village. This, it would seem, is a consequence of a specific attitude to liaisons in the past. On the one hand it was very restrictive: keep it in the village. On the other hand, it was very free: as long as it is in the village, you can play around as much as you want.
Monday, 7 June 2010
Celebrations
Celebrations
On Saturday neighbour Marie-Elisabeth called round to say she was having a birthday party that evening and could I come. She had just arrived from England for a short stay with American partner Mark. Both are working in England at the moment, she an interior designer and he a film production manager. The dozen or so invitees were mostly neighbours from along the road. Marie-Elisabeth and Mark had decided on Mexican food, tacos and tortillas with the usual fillings. What surprised me was that none of my French neighbours had apparently eaten thus before and they simply stared in perplexity at the food. It fell to me to show how to fill and roll up a tortilla. The others then thoroughly enjoyed the food, although noticeably avoiding the hotter chili sauces. I was interested because I had thought of preparing something similar one day, because it's simple, but hesitated because I was not sure how it would be received. Now I know.
Sunday was the 25th anniversary of the English library at Beaumont. A bit of a knees-up had been organised and it all went off very well. The library has progressed from being a single room in a house owned by Pat and Brian Stapleton, two former employees of the British Council, to now occupying two large rooms housing some three thousand books. And the inventory is now computerised. The handful of initial members has grown only to several dozen but there are plans to stock the English section in the Mollans library (when they get some shelves) and to make the database available to colleges in Vaison, Carpentras, Avignon and even further afield. At the moment broadband hasn't reached Beaumont; the commune has only some 300 inhabitants scattered in three hamlets. When broadband arrives, the database will be made available over the Internet, although there are no plans to provide a postal service.
And A Joke.......
From René, of course, at the pizza evening today. A small boy was playing in his parent's bedroom when his mother unexpectedly arrived home. So he hid in the wardrobe. His mother had come back with her lover. Soon after, they were interrupted when his father also returned home, so his mother hid her lover in the wardrobe. Seeing he had company, the boy said: “It's dark in here”. The lover agreed. Then the small boy said: “I've got a football to sell, for 250 euros”. The lover said: “250 euros! That's robbery!” “Yes,” said the boy, “but if you don't buy it I'll have to tell my father what you have been doing.” So the lover agreed.
A few weeks later there was the same scenario. The boy said it was dark in the wardrobe and the lover agreed. This time the boy had a pair of trainers to sell, for 150 euros. Again the lover had to agree.
A few days after that the father said to the boy: “It's a lovely day, get your trainers and football and we'll go out and play.”
“We can't”, said the boy. “I've sold my trainers and the football, for 400 euros.”
“400 euros!” exclaimed the father. “That's robbery! You must come with me immediately to the church and confess”.
So the father drags the boy off to the church, puts him in a confessional box and closes the door. The boy says: “It's dark in here”.
“Oh no!” says the priest. “Don't start that again; I've already paid you 400 euros and that is enough”.
On Saturday neighbour Marie-Elisabeth called round to say she was having a birthday party that evening and could I come. She had just arrived from England for a short stay with American partner Mark. Both are working in England at the moment, she an interior designer and he a film production manager. The dozen or so invitees were mostly neighbours from along the road. Marie-Elisabeth and Mark had decided on Mexican food, tacos and tortillas with the usual fillings. What surprised me was that none of my French neighbours had apparently eaten thus before and they simply stared in perplexity at the food. It fell to me to show how to fill and roll up a tortilla. The others then thoroughly enjoyed the food, although noticeably avoiding the hotter chili sauces. I was interested because I had thought of preparing something similar one day, because it's simple, but hesitated because I was not sure how it would be received. Now I know.
Sunday was the 25th anniversary of the English library at Beaumont. A bit of a knees-up had been organised and it all went off very well. The library has progressed from being a single room in a house owned by Pat and Brian Stapleton, two former employees of the British Council, to now occupying two large rooms housing some three thousand books. And the inventory is now computerised. The handful of initial members has grown only to several dozen but there are plans to stock the English section in the Mollans library (when they get some shelves) and to make the database available to colleges in Vaison, Carpentras, Avignon and even further afield. At the moment broadband hasn't reached Beaumont; the commune has only some 300 inhabitants scattered in three hamlets. When broadband arrives, the database will be made available over the Internet, although there are no plans to provide a postal service.
And A Joke.......
From René, of course, at the pizza evening today. A small boy was playing in his parent's bedroom when his mother unexpectedly arrived home. So he hid in the wardrobe. His mother had come back with her lover. Soon after, they were interrupted when his father also returned home, so his mother hid her lover in the wardrobe. Seeing he had company, the boy said: “It's dark in here”. The lover agreed. Then the small boy said: “I've got a football to sell, for 250 euros”. The lover said: “250 euros! That's robbery!” “Yes,” said the boy, “but if you don't buy it I'll have to tell my father what you have been doing.” So the lover agreed.
A few weeks later there was the same scenario. The boy said it was dark in the wardrobe and the lover agreed. This time the boy had a pair of trainers to sell, for 150 euros. Again the lover had to agree.
A few days after that the father said to the boy: “It's a lovely day, get your trainers and football and we'll go out and play.”
“We can't”, said the boy. “I've sold my trainers and the football, for 400 euros.”
“400 euros!” exclaimed the father. “That's robbery! You must come with me immediately to the church and confess”.
So the father drags the boy off to the church, puts him in a confessional box and closes the door. The boy says: “It's dark in here”.
“Oh no!” says the priest. “Don't start that again; I've already paid you 400 euros and that is enough”.
Wednesday, 2 June 2010
Gardens
Gardens
Some friends, Jean-Marc, Florence, René and Ahmelle, came round for aperitifs this evening and all admired my back garden. Which was nice, obviously, but all made the same remark as other French friends had before. It was a “jardin anglais”, could have been made only by an Englishman. What they meant was that there was no formality or discernible structure in it; it just was. But it nevertheless looked good to them. It's a bit like the French attitude to Shakespeare; he's great but he doesn't observe any of the (French/Greek) theatrical conventions.
I've probably commented before on the French passion for formal structure in gardens. I think that can work fine if you have a chateau and a few hundred acres to play with but doesn't work well in relatively small spaces. I always despaired of the gardens I sometimes found in suburban England which had a rectangular lawn fringed by rectangular flower beds planted with flowers in symmetrical rows. I couldn't say they looked bad but they certainly lacked any kind of soul. Someone once said that there are no right angles in nature and, despite probably many exceptions to that, I believe that should be true of gardens. And I have another objection: for me, gardens have to evolve over time; some plants die, some become rampant and have to be curtailed and the resultant spaces don't have to be filled with the plants that were there before. So, over time, the garden changes shape and character. Within a formal structure, this is very difficult if not impossible to effect.
Anyway, René pointed out to me that there was a garden programme on French television this evening that had a significant English content; so I duly tuned in to it. It was a good programme but I was alarmed at first at the English contribution because the programme makers had gone to Blenheim Palace of all places: a chateau and several hundred acres looked like confirming the French approach. Fortunately, they then went on to Michelin starred chef Roux and his Manoir à Quartre Saisons just outside Oxford, a good French reference, who was very passionate about a very English garden he had created there. He said all the things I would have wanted to say about creating a garden.
As a kind of footnote, there is an American architect called Christopher Alexander who had a significant impact on IT thinking about how to create and amalgamate computer programs through his books “Notes on the Synthesis of Form” and “A Pattern Language”. I have found his thinking on the design of what should go into spaces works equally with gardening.
On a less formal note, I pointed out to neighbour and artist Florence this evening the quite large and very white walls in my terrace room and suggested that some of her paintings (far outside my budget) would look good there. She is currently preparing for an exhibition in Aix but kindly said that she would lend me some after that. I'm not sure that I am likely to have any visitors who would justify that from a commercial point of view (I don't have many rich friends) but maybe it will save her some storage space!
Some friends, Jean-Marc, Florence, René and Ahmelle, came round for aperitifs this evening and all admired my back garden. Which was nice, obviously, but all made the same remark as other French friends had before. It was a “jardin anglais”, could have been made only by an Englishman. What they meant was that there was no formality or discernible structure in it; it just was. But it nevertheless looked good to them. It's a bit like the French attitude to Shakespeare; he's great but he doesn't observe any of the (French/Greek) theatrical conventions.
I've probably commented before on the French passion for formal structure in gardens. I think that can work fine if you have a chateau and a few hundred acres to play with but doesn't work well in relatively small spaces. I always despaired of the gardens I sometimes found in suburban England which had a rectangular lawn fringed by rectangular flower beds planted with flowers in symmetrical rows. I couldn't say they looked bad but they certainly lacked any kind of soul. Someone once said that there are no right angles in nature and, despite probably many exceptions to that, I believe that should be true of gardens. And I have another objection: for me, gardens have to evolve over time; some plants die, some become rampant and have to be curtailed and the resultant spaces don't have to be filled with the plants that were there before. So, over time, the garden changes shape and character. Within a formal structure, this is very difficult if not impossible to effect.
Anyway, René pointed out to me that there was a garden programme on French television this evening that had a significant English content; so I duly tuned in to it. It was a good programme but I was alarmed at first at the English contribution because the programme makers had gone to Blenheim Palace of all places: a chateau and several hundred acres looked like confirming the French approach. Fortunately, they then went on to Michelin starred chef Roux and his Manoir à Quartre Saisons just outside Oxford, a good French reference, who was very passionate about a very English garden he had created there. He said all the things I would have wanted to say about creating a garden.
As a kind of footnote, there is an American architect called Christopher Alexander who had a significant impact on IT thinking about how to create and amalgamate computer programs through his books “Notes on the Synthesis of Form” and “A Pattern Language”. I have found his thinking on the design of what should go into spaces works equally with gardening.
On a less formal note, I pointed out to neighbour and artist Florence this evening the quite large and very white walls in my terrace room and suggested that some of her paintings (far outside my budget) would look good there. She is currently preparing for an exhibition in Aix but kindly said that she would lend me some after that. I'm not sure that I am likely to have any visitors who would justify that from a commercial point of view (I don't have many rich friends) but maybe it will save her some storage space!
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