In studying the French over the last few years I've noticed how insular they are, even worse than the Japanese and that they are generally impatient with foreigners - especially with us! But at least we English don't seem to be the butt of their few jokes, these being reserved for the Swiss and the Belgians, whom they poke fun at due to probable jealousy over their superior cultural heritage and more refined French accents. It's strange how we all need someone else to make fun of. I think I heard that the Americans use those in West Virginia for some reason? Certainly the red-necks anyway. But in all the world, I love the English approach to humour the most: self-deprecating irony at its best. Take a look at this:
Now you’re 60:
No one expects you to run - anywhere.
People call at 8pm and ask, Did I wake you?
People no longer view you as a hypochondriac.
There is nothing left to learn the hard way.
Things you buy now won't wear out.
You can eat supper at 4pm.
You can live without sex but not your glasses.
You get into heated arguments about pension plans.
You no longer think of speed limits as a challenge.
You quit trying to hold your stomach in no matter who walks into the room.
You sing along with elevator music.
Your eyes won't get much worse.
Your investment in health insurance is finally beginning to pay off.
Your joints are more accurate meteorologists than the weather report.
Your secrets are safe with your friends because they can't remember them either.
Your supply of brain cells is finally down to manageable size.
You can't remember who gave you this list,
or who you sent it to, so prepare to be told a few times, that you've sent this before.
Did you laugh? You must be as old as me, then!
13th October 2008
'It's a scandalous attack on 500 years of French history', say the masses. Yet more economic woes? No. Someone has actually had the temerity to tinker with their beloved language. What chutzpah. Yes, France is in deep shock because dictionary 'Le Petit Robert' has relaxed its language rules. In the most sweeping linguistic reform in France for centuries, the nation's premier dictionary has cast aside tradition to allow alternative spellings for thousands of words. Accents have become optional, consonants can be doubled on a whim and hyphens will float in and out of literary texts under the changes imposed by Alain Rey, the linguist responsible for the opus. “We have to make spelling simpler,” he said. “It's too complicated and it's not surprising that schoolchildren have trouble learning it.” Well yes. It causes a few problems for we immigrants of a certain age too! A few weeks ago, for a bit of fun, I went along to a local village hall to participate in one of France's annual, national, dictee competitions. It was all very formal, with sealed envelopes which were opened at a precise time all over the country. I don't think I did very well, the problems, as usual, being all those feminine endings, accents and tenses. But the hall had its usual number of local French all sitting down to concentrate hard. Can you imagine that happening in England? But I've long noticed different French spellings anyway, e.g. clé or clef (for key), or imbecillite or imbecilite....enough said. However, the initiative has sparked a furious row in a country that has clung to la langue française as a pillar of its identity ever since King François I made it the official language in 1539. The controversy has now spread to internet forums, where users have denounced the arrival of text-message terms at the heart of Gallic culture.
So, how are we old codgers dealing with all this? Him indoors will still use the pictures in his Brico depot catalogue to point to things he needs. That is, of course, until he's suffering from something unmentionable and then it's poor old-suffering me, of course, who needs to translate in the Pharmacie. Nothing much changes here.
So, how are we old codgers dealing with all this? Him indoors will still use the pictures in his Brico depot catalogue to point to things he needs. That is, of course, until he's suffering from something unmentionable and then it's poor old-suffering me, of course, who needs to translate in the Pharmacie. Nothing much changes here.
Bruno - extracted from 'Pensioners in Paradis'
Part 1.
Thirty years ago when the children were small, we had a gorgeous pedigree Cavalier spaniel called Brandy. With her enormous soft eyes she was a beautiful creature but, probably because of much in-breeding, was of limited intelligence. However, in Brandy’s latter years I had by then returned to full-time work but always felt guilty at having to leave the dog inside for most of the day. Himself always seemed to hanker after a dog like the one he had as a child; one that had a bit of personality, intelligence and big enough to suit our new wide-open spaces.
So, one sunny day, several months after we had arrived in France, we decided that we would very much like to give a dog a good home with us. After asking our neighbours, we soon discovered that for this area, there was only one place to look: the local SPA (Société Protectrice des Animaux) in Montauban.
Although France is a nation of dog-lovers with around seventeen dogs to every hundred people, many French dogs are kept outdoors and some are almost permanently penned. We had to admit we have never seen anyone in our village actually walk their dogs, and we knew that many people, especially the farmers, kept them merely for practical purposes, to guard their homes or to catch vermin.
But we are English, and you know what that means. The dog will probably be treated by me as a grandchild-substitute and probably hugged to death. Anyway, once the idea took route, I was ready and eager to go and buy one. He wasn’t so sure but once I’d got an idea in my head…..
He did the driving, I was chief navigator comme d’habitude. This meant that we kept to the right side of the road but that we usually took the scenic route. Today was no exception. Many were the puzzled fermiers in the middle of nowhere who were accosted with the question: ‘Où est le chenil pour chiens?’ But eventually, after much reversing and skidding on obscure farm tracks, the dogs literally found us: we heard the barking from afar. As we approached, the sound became louder and louder. There must have been hundreds of the poor creatures in there.
We parked outside and clanged open the heavy metal gate. Madame was inside the entrance hut, inputting data onto a screen. Technology seems to have infiltrated just about everywhere and appears in the most unlikely of places, like right here. My first question: ‘Parlez-vous anglais?’ usually meets with a polite ‘Non, désolé.’ This was no exception. But in situations like this, with the two of us as likely paying customers, it’s amazing what sign language and combined efforts can do to effect a comprehensive understanding.
‘Uh, je cherche un chien.’
to be continued.......................
Thirty years ago when the children were small, we had a gorgeous pedigree Cavalier spaniel called Brandy. With her enormous soft eyes she was a beautiful creature but, probably because of much in-breeding, was of limited intelligence. However, in Brandy’s latter years I had by then returned to full-time work but always felt guilty at having to leave the dog inside for most of the day. Himself always seemed to hanker after a dog like the one he had as a child; one that had a bit of personality, intelligence and big enough to suit our new wide-open spaces.
So, one sunny day, several months after we had arrived in France, we decided that we would very much like to give a dog a good home with us. After asking our neighbours, we soon discovered that for this area, there was only one place to look: the local SPA (Société Protectrice des Animaux) in Montauban.
Although France is a nation of dog-lovers with around seventeen dogs to every hundred people, many French dogs are kept outdoors and some are almost permanently penned. We had to admit we have never seen anyone in our village actually walk their dogs, and we knew that many people, especially the farmers, kept them merely for practical purposes, to guard their homes or to catch vermin.
But we are English, and you know what that means. The dog will probably be treated by me as a grandchild-substitute and probably hugged to death. Anyway, once the idea took route, I was ready and eager to go and buy one. He wasn’t so sure but once I’d got an idea in my head…..
He did the driving, I was chief navigator comme d’habitude. This meant that we kept to the right side of the road but that we usually took the scenic route. Today was no exception. Many were the puzzled fermiers in the middle of nowhere who were accosted with the question: ‘Où est le chenil pour chiens?’ But eventually, after much reversing and skidding on obscure farm tracks, the dogs literally found us: we heard the barking from afar. As we approached, the sound became louder and louder. There must have been hundreds of the poor creatures in there.
We parked outside and clanged open the heavy metal gate. Madame was inside the entrance hut, inputting data onto a screen. Technology seems to have infiltrated just about everywhere and appears in the most unlikely of places, like right here. My first question: ‘Parlez-vous anglais?’ usually meets with a polite ‘Non, désolé.’ This was no exception. But in situations like this, with the two of us as likely paying customers, it’s amazing what sign language and combined efforts can do to effect a comprehensive understanding.
‘Uh, je cherche un chien.’
to be continued.......................
11th October 2008
Driving in France is a whole new experience. However, as we've discovered, most French drivers invent their own rules. I must admit to being terrified of being stopped by the gendarmes, not just because of language difficulties or worried about that glass of red wine I drank at lunch, but because of our international driving licence. There's nothing wrong with it. In fact, we ordered it specially before leaving the UK because of its photo - a useful thing to have with you at all times instead of carrying your passport. However, if we should be given any penalty points, it would mean we'd have to apply for a French licence. Help! I'm terrified that that would mean having to take another driving test, with all the difficulties of having to take a written test in French. It's difficult enough in English. So, I'm being especially careful on the roads. Unlike others, especially the thousands of English tourists. The gendarmerie are now getting wise to what happens at ferry ports. Thousands of Britons flashed for speeding in France each year may soon be getting points on their licence back home, it has emerged. What they don't seem to realise is what happens to an English driver when faced with an amazing open road spreading out in a wondrous vista in front of his tired eyes. Nowhere in England nowadays is there such a thing as an open road, free of other traffic. Even Lewis Hamilton, the Formula One driver, was banned from driving in France last December when he was pulled over on the A26 doing 122mph in a Mercedes. The limit on French motorways is 81mph in dry conditions and 65mph in the wet. But, don't forget the difference between mph and kmh. Seeing the many motorway signs permitting 110 kmh can go to an Englishman's head. Oh, and don't forget the new law that you must have a warning triangle and yellow vest in the car (even though the triangles have been proved to always blow over in the wind!) Anyway, you've now been warned. Oh, and if you see someone driving oh-so-carefully at a snail's pace on the inside lane - that'll be me.
10th October 2008
When we made our first tentative foray onto French soil proper three years ago, the plan for our lives was simple really. Him indoors would spend more time on his carpentry hobby and I would explore the world of writing. Since then, we've both learned a few things. One: that making things out of wood is more difficult than at first envisaged - hence many of our new wobbly wooden acquisitions. Two: that I've discovered a lot - not about writing so much, but about agents and publishers! Little did I think when I set out that it isn't the quality of writing that is sought after nowadays, but the relative fame of the author him/herself. To get published these days it's necessary to be: famous, beautiful, young and, if possible, featured recently in a TV reality show. Unfortunately I score zero on all these things. What happened to the old love of beautiful writing as an art in itself? If Will Shakespeare himself were to submit one of his plays today, it would no doubt be rejected. A modern response to this phenomenon has been the mushrooming of IT sites catering for the masses of furious wannabe writers, denied outlets by the old standard routes. Trouble is, I sometimes wonder if these act, not as an instant route to fame, but merely as a Disneyworld queue. You know the scene: move people around barriers and through hoops ad infinitum. This makes everyone think something is happening when in reality it just keeps them occupied. Time will tell. A writer's world is a long and winding road, as Macartney sang. If you want my tales of life in France to lead to your particular 'door', click on the 'Paradis' icon on the right.
9th October 2008
Today is a significant day for many people around the world. It is a time to reflect on the past year, its joys and sorrows, and vow to improve onself in the year to come. I've always considered it a good idea, once a year, to think about your life and how it's panned out. Whether you choose today, Xmas day, 1st January, Ramadan....whatever....is immaterial. We all need time to stand and stare. Of course, some people reading this may be atheist or agnostic. There have been several high-profile cases in the news recently whereby France has proved itself to be a secular, rather than a religious state, bravely insisting on no public displays of religious identity in order to prevent 'tribal' warfare on the streets. Many would say this is the most intelligent national global policy ever. Time will tell. But for me, time is the essence. As I grow older I realise that I dwell more and more on the past. Growing up in the austerity of post-war Britain with its rations and deprivation, life was grim. I was poorly fed, chronically insecure and miserable for long periods of time, so why do I look back? Once you reach 60, the future becomes less enchanting and the past is at least safe. Above all, I realise that life is precious. It's all we have so grab its essence before 'nightfall'. There may still be originality inside us that has not yet been unpacked. As I look outside my office window, the sun is rising in sparkling clarity above the golds, russets and browns of the distant hills and I breathe in deeply. I love la qualite de la lumiere here that so inspired Degas and Monet. I'm no 'still life' painting just yet.
8th October 2008
In a place called Beavais in Picardie, horses have replaced bin lorries as part of an experiment by rubbish company Sita France. Unfortunate name I would have thought. Anyway, as well as the economic and environmental advantages of the experiment, it is also a way of saving abandoned horses. A spokesman for the animal charity Equiterra which provide the horses said recently: 'It has gone really well. People don't normally stop and chat with the people who collect the rubbish but it has proved very popular with the town.' Well, yes. Everywhere else no-one really talks to binmen other than that old song via the late Lonnie Donegan: 'Have you missed me?' says an old lady rushing up with her bin bag. 'No - jump up on the cart'. At the top of our lane there is the usual assortment of coloured recycling bins where everyone is supposed to sort out their rubbish before depositing it in the correct container. And woe betide anyone who gets it wrong, by putting glass into the plastics bin, for example. 'Don't see the point', said him indoors the other day after coming back from his daily trip up the lane. 'Why not', said I innocently. 'Saw the rubbish removals truck this morning. The men jumped out, quickly cleared all three containers of their contents and dumped the lot wholesale into the back of their truck'. 'No!' 'Oh yes', said he. So, what was the point of all this recycling message then? To some things, there are no answers, so comme d'habitude I put it into my mental DB file. What's DB? Disbuggerment. Trouble is, here in France, my DB file is getter larger and larger. Oh well, c'est la vie.
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