I have often written about the many differences between urban life in the UK and rural life here in France. Noise is a case in point. None of us wants to live in a silent vacuum, but the excesses of modern-day living can reach crisis proportions to our hearing. Living in a major, busy city has consequences for all residents, from the early-morning roadworks just outside your door, to the intense decibels of that disco you attend Friday nights, or even your own alarm clock reverberating inches from your ear every single working day. It's time to stop. There are things you can do about it.
Now, the French know a thing or two about noise. For a start, they fit wooden shutters either side of every window and door. Once shut and locked at night, as well as providing perfect security, they also effectively block out insidious outside noises - like that early-morning cockerel next door! And your alarm clock? Instead of setting it to heart-attack country, use a CD model and set it to play a Chopin nocturne to lull you gently awake. And in the daytime? How to deal with that noisy dog chained up outside? In France you can apply to www.bruit.fr , who act as mediators in local neighbour disputes involving noise. If all else fails, you can even contact your local Mairie who have powers to intervene.
Voila! Problem solved. Your hearing is precious: do all you can to cut down noise levels in your own personal space.
20th November 2008
That woman with the je ne sais quoi - you know, Carla la magnifique - has been in the news again. The imminent arrival in the White House of someone with an African Muslim name has prompted a new campaign for racial integration, supported by the President's wife.
Under the Obama (or Bob the Builder!) slogan "oui, nous pouvons" (yes we can), the manifesto points to the "cruel contrast" between France's racially divided society and the lesson of inclusion that came from the US. Bruni says that she loves multi-ethnic France and that it is time to "help the elite to change". The Obama election has spurred young descendants of non-white immigrants to drop their given names - which their parents gave them to help them integrate - and claim new ones from their Arab/African backgrounds.
Names are a serious matter in France. Until a reform in 1992, parents could only register their babies with prénoms that were on an official list. Even now, to change a first name, you have to file a request with the local prosecutor's office and often argue your case before a judge. But now the trend in which Louis, Laurent or Marie want to become Abdel, Said or Rachida has connotations directly contrary to the French desire for integration of all immigrant groups.
And my opinion? If you choose to live in a different country from your own, do as the Romans do.
Under the Obama (or Bob the Builder!) slogan "oui, nous pouvons" (yes we can), the manifesto points to the "cruel contrast" between France's racially divided society and the lesson of inclusion that came from the US. Bruni says that she loves multi-ethnic France and that it is time to "help the elite to change". The Obama election has spurred young descendants of non-white immigrants to drop their given names - which their parents gave them to help them integrate - and claim new ones from their Arab/African backgrounds.
Names are a serious matter in France. Until a reform in 1992, parents could only register their babies with prénoms that were on an official list. Even now, to change a first name, you have to file a request with the local prosecutor's office and often argue your case before a judge. But now the trend in which Louis, Laurent or Marie want to become Abdel, Said or Rachida has connotations directly contrary to the French desire for integration of all immigrant groups.
And my opinion? If you choose to live in a different country from your own, do as the Romans do.
19th November 2008
As others of the 'baby-boomer' generation will have noticed, changes in society have followed us all along our life's journey. But have you also noticed that scientists often spend a lot of time, effort and cash to come up with a result that we knew all along? 'New' research from the national statistical institute has found that the French are happier in their mid-sixties than at any other time of their lives. Enjoyment of life goes downhill from the age of 20 and reaches a trough when people reach 50. Then la joie de vivre kicks in just before retirement age and builds to a peak in the late sixties. Good! That suits me fine. The researchers, via Insee, the statistics institute, produced their study from annual surveys since 1975 by the E.U.'s Eurobarometer agency. The downward trend to midlife misery is broadly matched around Europe. The sixties "are an age when leisure time, health and good income come together," the report says. Yes: that's why I wrote my 'Paradis' book.
The happiness curve suggests a correlation here: France offers earlier and better-paid retirement to its citizens than any other big European state. The French in their sixties report greater happiness than most other Europeans. So early retirement makes people happy. Wasn't it the philosopher Mill who said that we should all pursue personal happiness, so long as it doesn't harm others.
But what's this I read today? M. Sarkozy now wants to raise the retirement age to 70! 'You can't use a "pay-as-you-go" system if the number of workers is decreasing relative to those who are retiring.'
So here we go again. Some people never learn.
The happiness curve suggests a correlation here: France offers earlier and better-paid retirement to its citizens than any other big European state. The French in their sixties report greater happiness than most other Europeans. So early retirement makes people happy. Wasn't it the philosopher Mill who said that we should all pursue personal happiness, so long as it doesn't harm others.
But what's this I read today? M. Sarkozy now wants to raise the retirement age to 70! 'You can't use a "pay-as-you-go" system if the number of workers is decreasing relative to those who are retiring.'
So here we go again. Some people never learn.
18th November 2008
One of the things we really like about living in France is the excellent health care. So, it was with chagrin that I learned of a planned healthcare shake-up in 2009. The Health Minister, Roselyn Bachelot, wants every hospital in France to have its own manager with its own individual budget. Non, non, non! She's only got to look across the Channel to see what a disaster that idea has been. Why do 'new suits' always want to change everything? If it ain't broke, don't fix it!
The other day I read with sorrow of the death of the young actor, Guillaume Depardieu, who was the son of actor Gerard Depardieu. He was only 38. Despite the otherwise excellent health care in France, he died in hospital from pneumonia following a knee injury. Have you noticed how many people seem to die of pneumonia in hospital? Frank Sinatra comes to mind. Now, you wouldn't think that someone would die of pneumonia in a place like L.A. Could it be that the drugs that hospitals dispense around the world are just TOO STRONG? Could it be that the medicine is worse than the original complaint? The too-strong drugs override the body's natural immunity and cause you to die of something ridiculous like pneumonia, which you would never have contracted at home. As my brother always says: keep away from hospitals, don't take drugs, let your body recover from colds all on its own, and you'll live long!
The other day I read with sorrow of the death of the young actor, Guillaume Depardieu, who was the son of actor Gerard Depardieu. He was only 38. Despite the otherwise excellent health care in France, he died in hospital from pneumonia following a knee injury. Have you noticed how many people seem to die of pneumonia in hospital? Frank Sinatra comes to mind. Now, you wouldn't think that someone would die of pneumonia in a place like L.A. Could it be that the drugs that hospitals dispense around the world are just TOO STRONG? Could it be that the medicine is worse than the original complaint? The too-strong drugs override the body's natural immunity and cause you to die of something ridiculous like pneumonia, which you would never have contracted at home. As my brother always says: keep away from hospitals, don't take drugs, let your body recover from colds all on its own, and you'll live long!
17th November 2008
This morning, France's newspapers have banner headlines: Prepare yourself for a week of strikes which will disrupt public services. Where have I heard all this before? It was decades ago when a very different Conservative leader was elected into 10 Downing Street that the same problem reared its ugly head. The UK was then labelled the 'sick man of Europe'.
Now the disease has reached these shores. France is bracing for a week of transport and public sector strikes affecting rail transport, schools and postal services as unions launch a spate of campaigns against the proposed labour reforms of its new President. Hundreds of domestic and international flights were cancelled for a third day on Sunday as Air France pilots pursued a four-day strike, due to end later today. Tomorrow, French train drivers stage the first of two strikes over freight sector reforms and on Thursday, demonstrations by teachers over budget cuts threaten school closures. As though this weren't enough, next Saturday postal workers say they will strike for a day over partial privatisation plans.
Give me a break! When will people ever learn? It's the old political divide all over again. A new leader is elected on a ticket of reform, only to subsequently suffer the consequences by petty, selfish, groups out to maintain their own insular aims at the expense of the whole nation's more global wishes.
All this worries me of course. There's another new leader the other side of the Atlantic. Let's hope, after the honeymoon is over, that he doesn't suffer the same as President Sarkozy (and Margaret Thatcher before him) as his new idealistic policies start to bite.
Until we learn from history, we are set to keep repeating the same mistakes over and over again.
Now the disease has reached these shores. France is bracing for a week of transport and public sector strikes affecting rail transport, schools and postal services as unions launch a spate of campaigns against the proposed labour reforms of its new President. Hundreds of domestic and international flights were cancelled for a third day on Sunday as Air France pilots pursued a four-day strike, due to end later today. Tomorrow, French train drivers stage the first of two strikes over freight sector reforms and on Thursday, demonstrations by teachers over budget cuts threaten school closures. As though this weren't enough, next Saturday postal workers say they will strike for a day over partial privatisation plans.
Give me a break! When will people ever learn? It's the old political divide all over again. A new leader is elected on a ticket of reform, only to subsequently suffer the consequences by petty, selfish, groups out to maintain their own insular aims at the expense of the whole nation's more global wishes.
All this worries me of course. There's another new leader the other side of the Atlantic. Let's hope, after the honeymoon is over, that he doesn't suffer the same as President Sarkozy (and Margaret Thatcher before him) as his new idealistic policies start to bite.
Until we learn from history, we are set to keep repeating the same mistakes over and over again.
I told you I was ill!
Finale.
I shook my head from all this past reverie and put my mind to the job now in hand. We had the French attestation (paper confirmation) so went along to our local doctor in the next village. His office was situated on the Place de la République, over the railway line with its frightening red and white barriers permanently at half-mast, over the picturesque bridge shading the river Seye, and then left at the little lane by the expensively-lit pharmacie.
In the salle d’attente waiting room were seated three other people, all elderly. We entered, wishing them all a bonjour, as is the custom. We refrained from the usual ça va? (asking how they were) because clearly if they were all right, they wouldn’t have been there. We looked around for a receptionist, but evidently such an officious person, so beloved back home, wasn’t required here. We waited. Soon, the doctor breezed in, issued bonjours to us all, then welcomed the next in line into his surgery.
I tried to make polite conversation with the lady sitting on my right.
‘Monsieur le docteur, il est un bon docteur?’ (Is he a good doctor?)
‘Mais oui,’ (of course) shaking her head at such a stupid question.
I shut up and concentrated on translating the several posters pinned to the walls. As I was neither pregnant nor likely to be suffering from Aids, I didn’t bother attempting to read further. When the time eventually came for us to go in, I shook hands with the doctor and explained as best I could that I had come as translator for my husband. He nodded and ushered us into his surgery.
‘What has brought you to my surgery this morning?’ he enquired politely, whilst punching up some details on his PC.
‘Our Citroën C4!’ said H, quick as a flash.
Nothing wrong with his humour then.
The doctor looked puzzled, as well he might. However, we have hit upon a useful introductory phrase, which always seems to work. ‘J’ai mal au…….,’ (I've a pain here....) pointing to the offending part of the body. Soon the offending leg was being prodded, pummelled and the knee hit with a hammer. The doctor looked, then gravely pronounced:
‘C’est normal pour un homme de votre âge.’ (It's normal for a man of your age).
‘But, my other leg is just the same age, and that one doesn’t hurt.’
The doctor grunted several times, making copious notes into a file, before telling me that it was best if we sought a second opinion at the local Hôpital Chartreuse in yet another town, Villefranche de Rouergue.
‘Why do we need a second opinion, when we don’t know the first yet?’ said he logically.
‘Shh,’ said I resignedly.
The Hôpital Chartreuse proved clean, friendly and efficient. I had decided, whilst there, to take up the offer for me to have a mammogram. The French health service, rather like the NHS, invites all ladies over fifty to have a free test and as I had undergone this procedure several times in the UK I didn’t think it would be a problem. However, I had forgotten that tiny problem of language.
‘Please fill in this form,’ said the receptionist.
I glanced quickly at it, but was puzzled.
‘Why does it ask me for the name of my daughter? How did you know I had a daughter?’
‘I don’t understand, madame.’
‘See, here,’ said I pointing to the first line. ‘Nom de jeune fille…’ (young girl's name)
‘No,’ she explained resignedly. ‘We need you to put the name you had before you were married.’
I felt foolish. And the feeling persisted right into the consulting room. The nurse gabbled something quickly before leaving the room. Did she say I was supposed to undress? What if she didn’t say that and then I am led in my nakedness along a public corridor? Oh God, why ever did we come to a foreign country…?
But once I had at last finished with my radiology, and I was thankfully pronounced fit and well, we proceeded to the Physiology Department, where H’s treatment proceeded much better. The Korean doctor we saw there was charm personified. I explained as best I could H’s leg problem, furnishing the doctor with the usual difficult-to-read note from our own doctor. He got straight down to business, asking if the patient could lie down on the narrow, short (!) bed (all Frenchmen are short) whilst he did several tests on H’s nerves and muscles. At some point the doctor unravelled a long cable with a needle on the end. I thought I’d better say something.
‘Uh, mon mari n’aime pas les aiguilles.’ (My husband doesn't like needles). This translates medically as either ‘my husband has a low pain threshhold’ or more realistically ‘my husband is a coward.’ Either way, the doctor seemed to catch on straight away. He told me that as soon as he was about to puncture the patient’s foot with the long needle, I should divert his (not the doctor’s) attention. I wasn’t sure how I was going to do this, but waited for him to nod, before suddenly coughing. My cough was followed instantly by a howl of pain from the unfortunate patient.
Voilà!
The doctor said that in his professional opinion the difficulties with the leg stemmed from problems in the lower back and the fact that H wasn’t getting any younger. I translated. To which H replied: ‘it’s not younger I want to get, but older...!’
Anyway, the doctor pronounced that the problem with the leg was nothing too serious that could not be corrected by the purchase of a bicycle.
‘See,’ I told H, ‘it’s what I’ve always thought:
He says you’re to get on your bike!'
End.
I shook my head from all this past reverie and put my mind to the job now in hand. We had the French attestation (paper confirmation) so went along to our local doctor in the next village. His office was situated on the Place de la République, over the railway line with its frightening red and white barriers permanently at half-mast, over the picturesque bridge shading the river Seye, and then left at the little lane by the expensively-lit pharmacie.
In the salle d’attente waiting room were seated three other people, all elderly. We entered, wishing them all a bonjour, as is the custom. We refrained from the usual ça va? (asking how they were) because clearly if they were all right, they wouldn’t have been there. We looked around for a receptionist, but evidently such an officious person, so beloved back home, wasn’t required here. We waited. Soon, the doctor breezed in, issued bonjours to us all, then welcomed the next in line into his surgery.
I tried to make polite conversation with the lady sitting on my right.
‘Monsieur le docteur, il est un bon docteur?’ (Is he a good doctor?)
‘Mais oui,’ (of course) shaking her head at such a stupid question.
I shut up and concentrated on translating the several posters pinned to the walls. As I was neither pregnant nor likely to be suffering from Aids, I didn’t bother attempting to read further. When the time eventually came for us to go in, I shook hands with the doctor and explained as best I could that I had come as translator for my husband. He nodded and ushered us into his surgery.
‘What has brought you to my surgery this morning?’ he enquired politely, whilst punching up some details on his PC.
‘Our Citroën C4!’ said H, quick as a flash.
Nothing wrong with his humour then.
The doctor looked puzzled, as well he might. However, we have hit upon a useful introductory phrase, which always seems to work. ‘J’ai mal au…….,’ (I've a pain here....) pointing to the offending part of the body. Soon the offending leg was being prodded, pummelled and the knee hit with a hammer. The doctor looked, then gravely pronounced:
‘C’est normal pour un homme de votre âge.’ (It's normal for a man of your age).
‘But, my other leg is just the same age, and that one doesn’t hurt.’
The doctor grunted several times, making copious notes into a file, before telling me that it was best if we sought a second opinion at the local Hôpital Chartreuse in yet another town, Villefranche de Rouergue.
‘Why do we need a second opinion, when we don’t know the first yet?’ said he logically.
‘Shh,’ said I resignedly.
The Hôpital Chartreuse proved clean, friendly and efficient. I had decided, whilst there, to take up the offer for me to have a mammogram. The French health service, rather like the NHS, invites all ladies over fifty to have a free test and as I had undergone this procedure several times in the UK I didn’t think it would be a problem. However, I had forgotten that tiny problem of language.
‘Please fill in this form,’ said the receptionist.
I glanced quickly at it, but was puzzled.
‘Why does it ask me for the name of my daughter? How did you know I had a daughter?’
‘I don’t understand, madame.’
‘See, here,’ said I pointing to the first line. ‘Nom de jeune fille…’ (young girl's name)
‘No,’ she explained resignedly. ‘We need you to put the name you had before you were married.’
I felt foolish. And the feeling persisted right into the consulting room. The nurse gabbled something quickly before leaving the room. Did she say I was supposed to undress? What if she didn’t say that and then I am led in my nakedness along a public corridor? Oh God, why ever did we come to a foreign country…?
But once I had at last finished with my radiology, and I was thankfully pronounced fit and well, we proceeded to the Physiology Department, where H’s treatment proceeded much better. The Korean doctor we saw there was charm personified. I explained as best I could H’s leg problem, furnishing the doctor with the usual difficult-to-read note from our own doctor. He got straight down to business, asking if the patient could lie down on the narrow, short (!) bed (all Frenchmen are short) whilst he did several tests on H’s nerves and muscles. At some point the doctor unravelled a long cable with a needle on the end. I thought I’d better say something.
‘Uh, mon mari n’aime pas les aiguilles.’ (My husband doesn't like needles). This translates medically as either ‘my husband has a low pain threshhold’ or more realistically ‘my husband is a coward.’ Either way, the doctor seemed to catch on straight away. He told me that as soon as he was about to puncture the patient’s foot with the long needle, I should divert his (not the doctor’s) attention. I wasn’t sure how I was going to do this, but waited for him to nod, before suddenly coughing. My cough was followed instantly by a howl of pain from the unfortunate patient.
Voilà!
The doctor said that in his professional opinion the difficulties with the leg stemmed from problems in the lower back and the fact that H wasn’t getting any younger. I translated. To which H replied: ‘it’s not younger I want to get, but older...!’
Anyway, the doctor pronounced that the problem with the leg was nothing too serious that could not be corrected by the purchase of a bicycle.
‘See,’ I told H, ‘it’s what I’ve always thought:
He says you’re to get on your bike!'
End.
15th November 2008
Writing occasionally allows me to be creative and, sometimes, to do something extraordinary.
Earlier this week The Telegraph had a piece on Clint Eastwood's film career. "The main thing is I'm a storyteller," he says. "I ask myself, 'Is this the kind of story I would be interested in seeing?' If the answer is 'yes', then I go with it."
As he has aged he has branched out into more forgiving roles which allow him to use his age as a plot device. "I like heroes that have a personal flaw or an obstacle they have to overcome," he says. "Those are the kind of characters I can relate to. Besides, I'm too old to be playing a young character doing things nobody would believe."
Whilst reading this, I thought instantly of the perfect role for him. A while ago the actor was awarded the coveted Legion d'Honneur by the then French President Jacques Chirac. In his acceptance speech the actor said that his lifelong desire would be to make a film in France. At 78, Clint Eastwood would be ideal to play the part of Philippe Petain in my novel 'Je ne regrette rien' (ISBN 978-1-84753-366-1). The role would have all the elements that suit his style: a man beset by inner feelings of guilt and anxiety but determined to do what he considered right for his country. So, I did something extraordinary. I sent him a copy of my novel.
So, come on Clint, MAKE MY DAY!
..........Don't miss Part 3 of 'I told you I was ill' tomorrow
Earlier this week The Telegraph had a piece on Clint Eastwood's film career. "The main thing is I'm a storyteller," he says. "I ask myself, 'Is this the kind of story I would be interested in seeing?' If the answer is 'yes', then I go with it."
As he has aged he has branched out into more forgiving roles which allow him to use his age as a plot device. "I like heroes that have a personal flaw or an obstacle they have to overcome," he says. "Those are the kind of characters I can relate to. Besides, I'm too old to be playing a young character doing things nobody would believe."
Whilst reading this, I thought instantly of the perfect role for him. A while ago the actor was awarded the coveted Legion d'Honneur by the then French President Jacques Chirac. In his acceptance speech the actor said that his lifelong desire would be to make a film in France. At 78, Clint Eastwood would be ideal to play the part of Philippe Petain in my novel 'Je ne regrette rien' (ISBN 978-1-84753-366-1). The role would have all the elements that suit his style: a man beset by inner feelings of guilt and anxiety but determined to do what he considered right for his country. So, I did something extraordinary. I sent him a copy of my novel.
So, come on Clint, MAKE MY DAY!
..........Don't miss Part 3 of 'I told you I was ill' tomorrow
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