I feel more European since we came to live in France. Britain seems so isolated now, somehow - cut-off by a stretch of water. Watching the French TV news, we get a far more balanced view of what is happening in other countries, but particularly elsewhere in the EU. When did English TV news cover a country like Belgium, for example? Never. Of course, you'll all be shouting at me: what is Belgium for? Not just for the beer, surely? It's a question which many outside its borders have jokingly asked themselves. So, I was amazed to find out recently that even the Belgians are doing so as well, and in deadly earnest. They've seriously started asking themselves whether rich northern Flanders, with its 6 million Flemish speaking people, should break away? There is certainly no love lost between the linguistic rivals in Belgium. It seems that although the Walloons (who speak a French-like dialect) and the Flemings (who speak an entirely different language - a bit more like German) are happy to sup the same beer, how on earth do they understand each other? But the main problem is the ridiculous six governments – at federal, regional, linguistic and community (for the 70,000 German speaking community too small to get their own region) level.
So, what can this tiny country do? The first logical option is to split. The irrational solution is to add yet more bureaucracy to accommodate the different groups. Although I can't believe the people themselves want to split, perhaps the 3.5 million Francophone Walloons should simply join France. Of course, Sarkozy himself couldn't suggest that for fear of inadvertently, but literally, moving into Lebensraum territory. Heaven forbid - especially with his own family roots. History sometimes moves in mysterious ways.
20th October 2008
We knew it would happen. The economic crisis, which until now seemed only to be affecting those movers and shakers on Wall Street, is now actually affecting the ordinary man in the boulevard. That awful phrase 'negative equity' is affecting everyone and banks have started to repossess. So, the crooks of this world are having to dream up more and more scams to prop up their finances. Even the French President was affected last month when Parisian thieves obtained confidential numbers and passwords to withdraw, undetected, regular small slices of his annual salary of £195,000. I wonder how he noticed. But what can the ordinary man and small businesses do about their own problems? France has never been famous for customer service, but something appears to be happening. Some estate agents feeling the pinch have begun to offer online discounts, insurance and offers to pay hefty notaires' fees as the slump continues. Developers Kaufman & Broad recently put some new houses up for sale with a discount of 5-12%, attracting 500,000 visitors to its internet site. All over France prospective house buyers are being inundated with incentives as estate agents suffer a dramatic slump in business. There's even an insurance policy called securite-revente. In the event of the buyer being forced to sell the house at a loss within 2 years of buying it, the policy will apparently add financial protection. Methinks: there's bound to be small-print which will prevent them from paying out when the time comes, but that's me being cynical again.....or shall we call it realistic from a lifetime's experiences! But, if you're not buying, if at all possible ride out the current economic storm by paring down your outgoings to a minimum. It's bound to all be over within a few years, isn't it? Then, if necessary, downsize and use the capital to cut down the highest of your debts. I know - easier said than done. Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt.....
Bruno - extracted from 'Pensioners in Paradis'
Part 2.
‘Uh, je cherche un chien.’
‘Oui. Va devant, je te suis.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Not sure, so let’s go ahead and she’ll probably follow us.’
We followed the noise and soon were faced with the most heartrending sight. Dozens of small cages, each housing about six dogs of single sex, each dog jumping up and wagging frantically as we passed. It felt that each dog was saying to me: ‘Take me, take me.’ And I wanted to, desperately. But I knew that the practical side would win in the end. We could probably only cope with one. A dog is for life, not just for Xmas.
In the end we chose a handsome gun-dog with similar colouring to Brandy of old. He was a long-legged spaniel with mercifully uncut tail. Madame told us that she thought he was around two years old. The vets gave them all a check-up on arrival, making notes on their condition and deducing their likely age from their teeth. Good job they didn't look at mine then.
We had one or two questions. ‘What is his history? How did you come to get him in the first place?’
How did you come to fall in the water? I didn’t come to fall in, I came to do some fishing…
‘Shh!’
Madame replied that, as with many of their dogs, his history was unknown. With gun dogs it is sometimes the case that, for one reason or another, a dog fails to obey the master’s commands or fails to do a good enough job in the field. She told us that it is quite common for people to abandon their dogs for a variety of reasons. She said that around one hundred thousand dogs are abandoned by their owners in France every year, many after the hunting season is over or at the start of the long summer holidays. She and her staff were always kept busy rounding up stray dogs, bringing them to the pound and ensuring they get checked over and tattooed in the ear. It is a requirement that all dogs in France must be tattooed with an identity number inside one of their ears (tatouage). This enables owners to quickly find their lost pets and it also prevents a vaccination certificate or similar from being used for more than one dog. She told us that our dog’s identity number would be kept in a central computer, so that if we should subsequently lose our pet, we can contact her.
Looking around Madame’s office we spotted several items that we would need immediately, so purchased from her a sturdy ‘Rambo’ lead – our dog looked pretty strong to me – plus two metal dishes for his food and water. After completing all the formalities, including our personal details which she immediately inputted onto the computer, I paid her the required seventy-five euros and led my companion to the car. The husband followed.
The dog stood on the pavement and despite several ‘Hups’ from us, refused to jump into the back of the car.
‘Maybe he’s bilingual?’
‘Yes. Il n’ecoute ni en anglais ni en français!’
It was true. He didn’t listen to us in either language. In the end we managed to hump him up and over the sill, nearly giving us both hernias into the bargain. The dog stood resolute and dignified in the back as we slammed the rear door down firmly, returned to our seats and accelerated away. Behind us retreated the upsetting whines of the unfortunate dogs we had to leave behind.
Back at home, the dog’s new master took him on a tour of the premises, walking round and round in the hope that he (the dog) would perform. What we didn’t realise, though, was that ever after, the dog would think that this would be his new job: parading round and round the house, like some sort of resident caretaker.
We named him Bruno.
Over the next few months we discovered that Bruno only liked to be outside. He remains intensely nervous of coming indoors, leading us to think that a previous owner might have enticed him inside and then slammed the door on him, imprisoning him for hours or days on end.
Little did we know the sort of adventures that were to follow.......
..........Continued next Sunday
‘Uh, je cherche un chien.’
‘Oui. Va devant, je te suis.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Not sure, so let’s go ahead and she’ll probably follow us.’
We followed the noise and soon were faced with the most heartrending sight. Dozens of small cages, each housing about six dogs of single sex, each dog jumping up and wagging frantically as we passed. It felt that each dog was saying to me: ‘Take me, take me.’ And I wanted to, desperately. But I knew that the practical side would win in the end. We could probably only cope with one. A dog is for life, not just for Xmas.
In the end we chose a handsome gun-dog with similar colouring to Brandy of old. He was a long-legged spaniel with mercifully uncut tail. Madame told us that she thought he was around two years old. The vets gave them all a check-up on arrival, making notes on their condition and deducing their likely age from their teeth. Good job they didn't look at mine then.
We had one or two questions. ‘What is his history? How did you come to get him in the first place?’
How did you come to fall in the water? I didn’t come to fall in, I came to do some fishing…
‘Shh!’
Madame replied that, as with many of their dogs, his history was unknown. With gun dogs it is sometimes the case that, for one reason or another, a dog fails to obey the master’s commands or fails to do a good enough job in the field. She told us that it is quite common for people to abandon their dogs for a variety of reasons. She said that around one hundred thousand dogs are abandoned by their owners in France every year, many after the hunting season is over or at the start of the long summer holidays. She and her staff were always kept busy rounding up stray dogs, bringing them to the pound and ensuring they get checked over and tattooed in the ear. It is a requirement that all dogs in France must be tattooed with an identity number inside one of their ears (tatouage). This enables owners to quickly find their lost pets and it also prevents a vaccination certificate or similar from being used for more than one dog. She told us that our dog’s identity number would be kept in a central computer, so that if we should subsequently lose our pet, we can contact her.
Looking around Madame’s office we spotted several items that we would need immediately, so purchased from her a sturdy ‘Rambo’ lead – our dog looked pretty strong to me – plus two metal dishes for his food and water. After completing all the formalities, including our personal details which she immediately inputted onto the computer, I paid her the required seventy-five euros and led my companion to the car. The husband followed.
The dog stood on the pavement and despite several ‘Hups’ from us, refused to jump into the back of the car.
‘Maybe he’s bilingual?’
‘Yes. Il n’ecoute ni en anglais ni en français!’
It was true. He didn’t listen to us in either language. In the end we managed to hump him up and over the sill, nearly giving us both hernias into the bargain. The dog stood resolute and dignified in the back as we slammed the rear door down firmly, returned to our seats and accelerated away. Behind us retreated the upsetting whines of the unfortunate dogs we had to leave behind.
Back at home, the dog’s new master took him on a tour of the premises, walking round and round in the hope that he (the dog) would perform. What we didn’t realise, though, was that ever after, the dog would think that this would be his new job: parading round and round the house, like some sort of resident caretaker.
We named him Bruno.
Over the next few months we discovered that Bruno only liked to be outside. He remains intensely nervous of coming indoors, leading us to think that a previous owner might have enticed him inside and then slammed the door on him, imprisoning him for hours or days on end.
Little did we know the sort of adventures that were to follow.......
..........Continued next Sunday
18th October 2008
There's a village in the Var region, on the southern Mediterranean coast, which has recently made a surprising change. Shops there are accepting francs as currency again. The trend was begun by baker Nathalie Lepeltier, who says that people still have a lot of old notes at home, and the last series of franc notes can be exchanged at the Banque de France until 2012. Apparently all the businesses in Collobrieres, the village in question, are now taking part in the experiment and Mme Lepeltier has agreed to collect all their francs and to send them to the bank. I can't imagine that happening in the UK - too much chance of the collector disappearing abroad with all that cash, I'd have thought! But then I'm an English cynic and have lived a bit. Anyway, all the shops in Collobrieres now have pictures up showing the notes that are allowed: the last series which includes 500s with a picture of Pierre and Marie Curie, 200s with Gustave Eiffel, 100s with Cezanne, 50s with Saint-Exupery and 20s with Debussy. All said they didn't like the Euro notes anyway - all those pictures of buildings no-one's heard of. They much prefer the colourful personalities pictured on the old notes. Apparently four out of 10 households in France still work out their budgets in terms of francs, then translate painfully. Some still even think in ancien francs, the currency that went out in 1960 (when a hundred old francs became one new one). Although elsewhere in the EU they have euro 'cents', it's actually still 'centimes' in France now, avoiding confusion with the word for 100. The name of Madame's Collobrieres shop, Le Pain de Jadis, actually means 'the bread of yesteryear'. It made me think of the current Hovis advert on English TV, with scenes of wartime neighbourliness. When times are hard, take people back to an airbrushed past when everything was good, neighbours actually spoke to one another and everyone was content with what they had. Trouble is, the dream soon fades when you're faced with the hard reality of the present again, but it's nice while it lasts.
P.S. Don't miss Part 2 tomorrow of the Bruno serial.
P.S. Don't miss Part 2 tomorrow of the Bruno serial.
17th October 2008
One of our highlights every day is seeing the little yellow La Poste van scuttling down our lane. The lady who drives it zooms up to our gate-side green postbox at 10.30 a.m. six days a week without fail, giving us a cheery wave as she posts something mysterious for us. Our driveway, like our life, is a long and winding one so it's always good exercise to walk down and investigate, even if it's nothing special. I wonder, though, what's going to happen in the future as a special commission has been set up in Paris to discuss the future of La Poste against privatisation plans. La Poste is staffed by French civil servants (fonctionnaires); there aren't any yet run by private businesses as in the UK. But like most locals, I like La Poste just as it is. I like the yellow vans, yellow post office signs and yellow postboxes set prominently in every village and town. The post office logo itself though looks like a blue paper aeroplane on a yellow background. Lately there've also been strange American-looking signs proclaiming: I (red-heart) L.A. Many people have been puzzled, wondering why La Poste loves Los Angeles. But it's the new Livret A - a high-interest post office account - they're promoting in an attempt at modernisation. Of course, trouble's already brewing with the Post Office unions. General secretary for Trade Union CFDT Francois Chereque recently said: 'We have to have a public debate on the matter otherwise we cannot understand it or accept it'. But there's the usual stand-off between him and the head of La Poste Jean-Paul Bailly, who said the company would be open to full competition, without fail, on Jan 1st 2011. So, battle-lines are drawn and boxing gloves are at the ready. Pity. I like living in my own little toytown village. You remember Trumpton on children's TV: Drew, Drew, Barney McGrew, Cuthbert, Dibble, Grub...or something. Perhaps the days of our delightful little yellow post van are over. Quel catastrophe!
16th October 2008
So, unemployment in Britain has reached catastrophic proportions yet again. I remember just after Mrs Thatcher took power when unemployment passed three million for the first time since the 1930s depression. One in eight people was out of work. I'm also old enough to remember the '70s Winter of Discontent when electricity supplies were rationed in the UK and binmen and even some gravediggers downed tools. And here we are again. But people can be surprisingly resilient. Some, particularly those with a latent artistic talent have moved to France to try, for the first time, something new. But like everything else, it's not easy. There are two English ladies who work as artists in the Lot, not far from here near Cahors. One works as an interior illustrator and portrait artist and the other has won awards with the Royal Society of Oil Painters and is a member of the Societe des Pastellistes de France. This entitles you to run classes to supplement your income and to hang your work up on public display. Like most painters here, they came to this area to get the space to paint, finding France an inspirational place for colour. (They're a sentimental pair, always full of emulsion, but we'll gloss over that!)But the registration process has really tightened up over the past few years. English-speaking artists established professionally and resident in France are self-employed workers unless they have a binding contract of employment. They must register at the Chambre de Metiers of the departement where they live and apply for a SIREN reg. no. If in difficulty with all the administration, the Franco-British Chamber of Commerce can help. The best thing of all to do, though, as some of our friends here have discovered, is to simply come to France when you've retired. Then, you can simply enjoy your artistic talent, whether it be painting, writing or roller-skating(!), without all those hassles. (As Him indoors would say: no-one asked Van Gogh for anything, because he said he'd got one 'ere!). Enjoy your life, whatever your talent. C'est la joie de vivre.
15th October 2008
Some time ago I wrote a book called 'Je ne regrette rien', which explored how people's minds and political attitudes can change, particularly during times of conflict and war. In France in 1940, before the tides of war swung the allies' way, the then President (Philippe Petain) went with the views of most of the country at that time in thinking that Germany was going to win. Better to side with Hitler then, if France was going to survive. Then everything changed, including people's attitudes. It was interesting, therefore, to read a recent story about the family of a Jersey man shot by the Nazis after joining the French Resistance. The descendants of John Soyer have now been invited to Brehel in Normandy, where he is buried, to commemorate his heroic deeds during the Resistance. The family had been tracked down by a 92 year-old lady, who had helped M. Soyer all that time ago. The residents of Brehel organised a flag-lowering ceremony in Normandy in M. Soyer's honour and renamed an apartment block in the town Residence John Soyer. As Petain himself would have said: how war and conflict change things! It's as if every so often someone stirs around the whole mixing-bowl world with a giant spoon, changing our mindsets in totally different directions. I wonder if the current conflation of serious economic downturn plus the possibility of the first black US President, will have the same effect on us all, changing our views in previously unimaginable ways. We'll just have to wait and see.
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