Sex a la francaise - extracted from 'Pensioners in Paradis'

Part 3. ...Now I came to think of it, no woman would have leaped astride a seat in quite such an inelegant way. We women have learned from years of experience what to do with our legs when we sit. This woman, man or whatever he was, certainly hadn't yet learned that vauable art, his legs all akimbo either side of the rounded, almost womanly, curves of the cello. Now that I knew, I almost expected the musician to shout out 'Whatcha mate' in recollection of Danny la Rue.
Later, having got used to the idea but having enjoyed immensely the lilting strains of the music for the last hour, we walked over to the bar and chattered to her - sorry, him. It appeared that he was English. His name was Marie, nee Mark, and he had led a very interesting life. Marie, formerly known as Mark, came to France being fed up with work as a builder in England. His brother was building in France and needed help so Mark said he would come for a couple of weeks; eleven years later he is still here.
In recent years work as a builder became impossible as fairly serious hormonal changes made Mark feel that he was a woman. In fact the hormone imbalance had a physical as well as a mental impact on his life. Impossible to work on a building site in a dress but Mark, now Marie, knew he still had to earn a living.
A lucky chance brought him to this bar at the same time as the owners were thinking of selling. (Of all the bars in all the world, you had to come to this one...) Mark jumped at the chance to step in and has worked hard for the last six months to make the bar and restaurant a success. Marie admits that she made a few mistakes at first but now with a new chef planning an exciting international menu, she feels very positive. Marie still has many problems to face including the prospect of a full sex change operation which her doctors are advising. We had to admit that listening to her story certainly changed our previous view on transvestites. Having listened carefully to her whole courageous story, we told her that whatever she decides to do in the future, we sincerely wished her well.
That night, lying in bed unable to sleep, I mulled long and hard on that emotive word 'sex'. If we're ever to get to grips with what it's like to be a Frenchman or woman, it's time we got to grips with French social customs, and not before time. Let's start with kissing......
To be continued.......................

30th August 2008

In our mailbox this morning was the September edition of the English-language newspaper The Connexion. We particularly like it because it reports on French news, but in English. The French themselves aren't great newspaper readers, and only one household in four actually buys a newspaper. The two best-known are Le Monde and Le Figaro, the so-called tabloid press being virtually non-existent in France. Of course, we can read UK newspapers via the internet, but these are naturally UK-biased and we need to keep in touch with what's going on near to where we now live. Although my spoken and written French has improved markedly in the 3 years we have lived here, it still helps a lot to read The Connexion because it focuses on the issues affecting English people living in France and the many problems that involves! In this month's edition I read that President Sarkozy has made sure that all workers in France, including part-timers, will not earn less whilst employed than they would if receiving unemployment benefits: something that Gordon Brown would do well to take on board. Mind you, as him indoors often used to say when asked how many people work at his establishment: 'Oh, about half of 'em.'
P.S. Don't miss part 3 of Sex a la francaise - appearing exclusively tomorrow on this site.

29th August 2008

Watching last night's TV made me mull over a lot of things. In the programme 'Who do you think you are', Jerry Springer was attempting to trace his ancestors. Quite apart from the anguish of revisiting the horrors of Nazi Germany, he was able to see and feel some of the all-too-real artefacts of that time: newspaper stories, buildings, trains. It became clear to him that these tactile objects from that time weren't merely the remnants from one lunatic dictator's rule, but represented the actual feelings of the general German population 70 years ago. After watching the programme, I looked out of the window and realised that today I was living my life in what was once German-occupied territory. How is it that for such a long time we have been free from world war? Could it be that the EU, for all its bureaucracy and accusations of identity-blocking, is something not to be abhored but to be lauded? Since moving away from the UK, I've come to realise that people become too-insular and narrow-focused living tightly-packed together, brain-washed by all the strident messages from the local media. Pause a while, give yourself time to stand and stare. The more democracies there are which are willing to sign peace treaties with each other, the more chance the people of the world can live without fear or restriction. If this is what the EU has done, then I'm all in favour of it. Nazi Germany must NEVER happen again.

28th August 2008

I have always had a somewhat eclectic taste in music, ranging from the really old stuff like Al Jolson, through the wonderful '50s music of Doris Day, Alma Cogan and Patsy Kline, the heady pop days of the '60s to the almost wistful American country styles of John Denver and Crystal Gale. So, it was with some trepidation that we went along to a classical musical soiree last night, held at the prestigious chateau home of some friends of ours. The event was held in aid of two local artistic charities so it would have been churlish to refuse. It was a beautiful evening, gloriously warm with streaks of red and gold in the still-blue sky. The reception was held in the grounds, where we were able to chat in both English and French. There was also a sprinkling of Dutch (who, from the road-sweepers up, speak every known language under the sun). Soon, we all climbed upstairs into a giant barn, with huge wooden rafters way above our craning heads. Examples of local artwork, towards which we would be donating, were displayed all around the heavy stone walls. The music started and for an hour we were lulled into reverie by a trio of musicians: a flute, clarinet and bassoon. There was a gentle selection, flowing with ease from Stravinsky, Debussy to Beethoven. Even to musical heathens like us, it sounded good. Afterwards, we wended our way through the sunset, despite stories of the history of the chateau where someone was apparently beheaded! But, I wasn't worried. If music be the food of love, play on.

27th August 2008

Interim report from the torture chamber.
I am now half-way through the standard 15 sessions with my physio and I am still alive to tell the tale. Yesterday my appointment was at his other consulting room in a pretty village called Arnac. Apparently he holds his morning sessions there and the afternoon sessions in the nearby town of St. Antonin. Anyway, with my usual trepidation I drove up to Arnac and saw that his rooms were actually based in a large, beautiful old stone house, overlooking the Midi-Pyrenees hills. When I arrived, the mist was just starting to lift over the distant peaks, giving the whole view a surreal feel. I shivered involuntarily. But there he was with his usual jovial bonhomie and firm handshake, waiting for me in the drive. Is this your house? I asked him, to take my mind off things. No, it's my mother's, he replied. Another shiver, as I imagined some ancient crone living in the upper dark turrets of the house. Maybe, like Toulouse-Lautrec, he keeps her hidden because of the hump on her back. Before going in to start the session, where no doubt he would attempt to continue pulling my arm through its usual tortuous angles, we looked way down the valley, an almost vertical drop. What's that? I pointed down below. 'Oh, that's the cemetery,' he said blithely. 'You can just make out the tops of the white tombstones.' Uhh Ohh. If the treatment hasn't worked, or worse, if his previous clients haven't (like me) paid the bill, is that where they end up............

26th August 2008

Today is the 89th birthday of my aunt. She is a very special lady (the last remaining of my elderly relatives) and I wish I could send her a cake complete with candles, but she lives in Glasgow - too far away. But if it were possible, I know where I would go: the boulangerie just around the corner in our village. Every day they make the most wonderful bread, pastries and gateaux - the smell of freshly-baked bread wafts out of the door at every tinkle of the doorbell. It's no wonder that him indoors buys bread there every single day. It reminded me of what happened last year on my 60th birthday. Unknown to me, H had decided to order me a special birthday cake with a French inscription. It wasn't until afterwards that I heard exactly what had happened. He had apparently explained in tortuous French that he wanted to order a birthday cake with the words: Bonne anniversaire a ........... 60 ans, and that he would collect it on the day. The trouble was that he wasn't at all sure that the baker had understood him, so to make sure, H repeated the message to M. le boulanger a few days later. They carefully wrote it down in their order book. The big day arrived and H called at the boulangerie to collect the cake. Oui, Monsieur, the baker said, Voici vos 2 gateaux! proudly producing 2 beautiful cakes, exactly as ordered with my favourite raspberry filling. Non, non, says H, I didn't want two, just one. This wasn't the time for one finger gesticulations, as the baker looked somewhat confused. In the circumstances what else could H do? He paid the baker, arrived home and somehow we had to manage to eat two delicious cakes instead of one. Quel catastrophe!

25th August 2008

Living in the middle of nowhere can be uplifting, surrounded as we are by all those golden fields and sheep, but sometimes I feel the lack of good shopping facilities (such as we were used to in the UK). I therefore decided to make use of the internet. I remembered those shops that were particularly good for my size(!), so looked up sites like Evans and M&S. Him indoors, not to be outdone, sometimes looks up sites like Draper Tools etc. However, what we have discovered is that these stores still seem to be living in the dark ages. Yes, someone has produced a snappy website for them, but they still talk about such things as 'freight' and 'shipping' as if we were a big company about to move our whole house abroad. One store replied: '...we don't deliver to France...'. I carefully explained that what I wanted was not 'freight', it didn't need to be 'shipped' and that all they needed to do was to pop my desired item into a sealed bag and mail it to me by standard mail. But no! Did they think I wanted it delivered by special van with a driver in a peaked cap? So, what did I do? I went to the place that is number one for customer service: the USA. Stores such as LL Bean in Maine and JC Penney said to me 'no problem'. Their websites had a special international site and they mailed items to me in a sealed bag, sent by airmail. Voila! Please take note, M&S and Evans. It's about time you brought your services into the 21st century.