Clutching the tea cup

Moving house

2011-09-02T11:32:00.002+02:00

Now I've finally moved, and am settled, and HOME, I can be found here: chezmarianne.posterous.com.

It doesn't feel right to say I'm struggling to stay afloat anymore, so time for a change (TOUCH WOOD TOUCH WOOD - you just know I'll be back here bawling my eyes out by Christmas)

a toot!

I am very immodest

2010-10-25T22:35:00.007+02:00

Yet very talented at the same time, so surely just honest and example to all? Yes, much better.

I love my job, most of the time. Ok, some of the time. I love my job in theory, but in practice it often spirals dramatically out of my control and even when it goes well, I can very often come home feeling a little blah. Blah, as in "so what have I actually achieved today?". Well, a nice day's salary to put a roof over my head and fancy shoes on my feet is what, but my angst is a 21st-century service economy angst, and will not be satisfied with such bagatelles. My soul is that of a pre-Industrial Revolution lace-maker.

[Not having any pictures of pre-Industrial Revolution lace-makers to hand, I turned to the archives put at my disposal by Google, and found this "cottager" with the information that she: "Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night/Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light."* This is just one of the many reasons I will never be a "cottager". A scanty pittance will not keep me in lipstick]

As I have shortsightedly chosen to live in one of the few countries where there is glut of hand-made lace, I had to turn elsewhere for my sense of achievement. I am very very bad at it, and it will cost me a fortune in wrongly-cut fabric and runaway sewing machines, but look! I am a skilled labourer who can bring tears to the eyes of pregnant friends!

* William Cowper, via Stuart King

Channelling Miss Pettigrew

2010-10-08T15:21:00.000+02:00

I have been a wee bit anxiety-ridden recently, and tears have been shed, more often than not in public. It's times like these that a girl needs a stern role model to see her through.

" ' Guinevere,' screamed Miss Dubarry in a panic. ' For God's sake, control yourself.'
' Guinevere,' gasped Miss LaFosse. ' Control, I implore you. Your make-up. Remember your duty to your make-up.'
Miss Pettigrew made a valiant effort.
' Most certainly,' said Miss Pettigrew with dignity. ' " England expects ! " ' "

(I haven't seen the film, and do not intend to, but the book is a gem. An absolute joy, especially the illustrations. I think I might take a taxi for pure frivolity later today)

From Persephone Classics, a joy in and of itself.

The extraordinary was in my own vision

2010-10-01T21:14:00.003+02:00

I'm dusting off keyboards, rifling through page after page of crap looking for passwords, and metaphorically clearing my digital throat: I might well be back. I hope so.

Reading down the last few posts, I note that, with quite astonishing optimism, I believed I was upping sticks and becoming a Frenchie waaaaay back in 2008. I also apparently thought I had got my paperwork sorted and would be on strike with the best of them by now. Hollow laughs all round, please!

I'm still here, waffle rather than baguette, endive not onion. But! I have taken the definitive actual I'm-off steps, and will have nowhere to live in Brussels as of December. Possibly no work, either, but today's about focusing on the positive. The rule is, pessimism tomorrow, and pessimism yesterday - but never pessimism today.

Anaïs Nin was, by all accounts, quite a goer. No better than she should be, as the mother of an old boyfriend would mutter, cryptically (not of me, I hasten to add. I don't think), but also a fascinating mind to be discovered in 60 years worth of diaries. Born in France, with Cuban-Danish-Catalan heritage, she mingled with the inter-war Parisian intellectual and artistic elite, the friend, and occasional close ladyfriend, of Henry Miller, Lawrence Durrell, Otto Rank and Gore Vidal, among others. Given the contents of her diaries, it seems astonishing that she would write that upon hearing her friends tell of their soirees, walks and projects, she "always listened with a kind of jealousy and envy, as if [she] had never known, or would ever know such nights". She goes on to realise that she has indeed had many such nights, and they were all contained within the pages of her diary, but that it was the dramatization her friends gave to their stories that meant "I felt nothing could parallel them, even whilst I was experiencing similar moments in my own life"

Sometimes all I have to say to people is "Well, I work in Brussels at the moment, but I spend my weekends in Paris and come the New Year I'll be - " and they're off "Oh, but I can see you now, the walks by the Seine, the eclairs, the sophisticated parties, oh but look at you, so ELEGANT..." and I'm thinking, well, no, it's me, remember? I still like a cheese and pickle sandwich, my tights are laddered, and come the summer I'm not ashamed to admit that there's nothing I like more than an icy white wine spritzer. They won't be making me an honorary Parisian any time soon, even if I do manage to file the 47 duplicate copies of my last six-months' earnings in time.

But maybe Anaïs had a point:

"It was this that made me so restless, this disparity between the imagined and the actual. But now I see that the extraordinary was in my own vision..."

Maybe I do live this extraordinary life. Maybe I need to sit down and tell myself all about the weekend I just had, the party, the croissants in bed, the Sunday evening aperitif sitting on the banks of the canal, and maybe then the restlessness and the sideways glances at other people's lives can stop.

I imagine my life in Paris is a little more sedate than Anaïs Nin's, what with the erotica being cut down to a minimum, but maybe it's time to learn to tell it like Henry Miller. And to rock a mantilla like Anaïs.

You win.

2010-01-28T20:24:00.004+01:00

Brussels, you've done it again. Much like the La Poste/no stamps incident, you have bemused me to such an extent I don't whether to be pleased I get to live here or start building a rudimentary bridge to Britain. Which I will then burn behind me.

Brussels, your shops: I can understand no Sunday trading. Fine. I find it a little harder to get my head around the no Monday trading, but I'm willing to roll with it.

But, Brussels. Brussels, Brussels, Brussels. Only here would IKEA have special one-off opening hours for Sunday the FOURTEENTH OF FEBRUARY.

I'm almost tempted to head down there myself to see just how many happy Belgian couples have been relentlessly lobbying the management for a special Valentine's flatpack.

Interim

2009-10-20T22:22:00.003+02:00

I'm going through a tricky period right now. I've been having these feelings, disturbing ones, and I need time to deal with them. The thing is...I might be starting to like Brussels. This has come as quite a shock, and and has made me question the very fibre of my being. Revulsion when I step out my front door has been such a large part of me for so long I'm scared about what might happen without it: will I technically cease to exist if it is replaced with mild appreciation, or even a cosy warm feeling?

You'll understand that all this is very difficult for me to deal with. Have a video to be going on with; it's an old one, but it never fails to penetrate my hard bitter shell, and I've even been known to tear up a little if it's been a hard day.

Look out for the joy on the grannys' faces, above all

Three months later...

2009-09-14T20:55:00.001+02:00

I been gone.

I had ever so much to say whilst I was gone, but I never managed to coordinate having my own laptop and internet at the same time, and I am a secret blogger so no desire to go faffing around on other people's computers. Computers with histories I can't wipe without them thinking I'm a closet porn junkie who can't spend a pleasant weekend away without creeping away into a corner for a fix.

But now I am back, and my mind has gone blank. Today I managed half a day's work (read 2 hours) before going home for lunch and my key getting stuck in the door. It was an unfun afternoon, remarkably unfun, and even after the excruciating call to work saying, er, I can't come back, someone else must be called in on their afternoon off and please don't hate me or stop giving me work please, even after enlisting the help of the corner-shop man, and calling the landlady, and two locksmiths, even now I am still sitting here at 9pm with two extra keys wondering if the couple below are even coming back tonight, but how miserable would I feel if it were me coming home at 1am and finding the locks had been changed...

I realise it shouldn't strictly be up to me to play concierge, but the landlady is otherwise quite quite wonderful. I just couldn't quite remember closing my window before the summer....I was sure I had, but just couldn't....quite...remember. She popped over to check. She also popped over when I couldn't find the fuse box. And when I'd run out of hot water. In fact, she's probably the one who changed the locks on me in the first place.

On the plus side, I just got lent the first series of The Wire, and I don't work tomorrow (or possibly ever again), so staying up for the kids below might just fit in with my schedule.

July in Paris: notes to self

2009-08-02T20:33:00.004+02:00

things I have achieved:

a window box. It is the smallest one ever seen, and we have lavishly and optimistically strewn the compost with beetroot, broccoli and radish, as these were labeled as July sewing. A rational man might point out that given the size of our box we will most likely reap two square beetroot, one rectangular broccoli, and six runty radish, but rationality doesn't really come into it when you sew your crop outside two weeks before trotting off on holiday and leave them in the blinding reflected sunlight of an inner courtyard. Hurrah for sustainable living!

Emmaus. I now own lots and lots of pots. For stuff, and things. And a teapot with mismatching lid. And a broken desk with fold-down lid. We also have a pot of gold paint. The possibilities are endless. May go back next Saturday, sucked in by the job lot of Claude François postcards, portraits, mugs and WATCHES I resisted this time...

Open-air cinema. Perfect. Blow-up screen (oh yes. it's inflatable, kids. A miracle of modern engineering), beautiful soft grass, surround sound, and picnic of figs and melon and cheese and all together now I-i-i-i-i-i love Paris in the sprrriinngg time (but sing summer-time instead, like I am in my head. Better).

One broken camera, so no record of my endeavors.

Two pairs of stretched jeans, ergo no weight-loss. Sod it.

Listening to French podcasts (2000 ans d'histoire) hour after hour after hour and in the process becoming scarily knowledgeable on obscure points of history, and satisfyingly competent at French.

things I have made:

chicken-liver pate and onion jam. Hundreds of little pots, which were liberally distributed wherever I went, to whoever was kind enough to welcome me. Some no doubt also slipped down back of sofa or the like and will be devoured in straitened times come December.

Moules. My first time. Very exciting, if a little tedious to prepare, and a little unnerving hearing the mussels muttering to themselves in the bag. Muttering brought to abrupt halt, as in fit of pique I handed preparation over to the man after a kilo's worth, and he washed the rest in hot water. It was terribly sad, death by torture almost. The rest tasted lovely, though

courgette, green bean, mozzarella salad, with toasted almonds and lemon dressing.

courgette, mint and feta fritters

sweet potato and fish cakes: born out of idiocy and laziness (10 euro minimum on card; instead of branching out into world of delicious prawns and whatnot, I panicked and asked for 1.2kilos of generic 'white fish'. Similarly, when desperately trying to use up last of the sodding coley or whatever it turned out to be in fish cakes, the exotic veg store is 100m closer than the supermarket and their more standard potato-potatoes. I am special)

watermelon, mint and feta salad. Deemed a success, personally not a fan of sheep or goat cheese with fruit. Funny vomity taste, anyone?

croutons. Millions and billions of them. It's the frugal Northern-Irish in me balking at the profligate French baguette-a-day habit and sweating over a hot stove into the small hours, hair awry, furiously churning out the oily crispy goodness, thinking all the while of my potato-less forebears.

Tummy-tuck for all budgets

2009-07-16T23:11:00.003+02:00

I have discovered my magic jeans.

About 20 years after I last wore a pair of Levis, I finally tracked down the high-waisted skinny number I was after. But WAIT! The 8os throwback that is my lower half is not all. The true genius is that by deluding myself that I have a 20" waist, and by desperately trying to stretch the the jeans so no one catches me out for the nutcase I quite obviously am, I am physically unable to eat to excess. Or, indeed, eat much at all. Willpower and self-control not being familiar concepts chez Monk, having been shouldered out to make room for gluttony and self-disgust, this is a welcome turn of events. I just have to mummify myself in denim 24 hours a day, and all will be well. You are MOST welcome.

I'm pretty sure this is what's known as a healthy relationship with food, no?

Cooooeeeeeeee, I'm hooooo-ooome

2009-07-07T21:38:00.004+02:00

The move to Paris continues apace, involving mainly sitting in the sun glass in hand talking earnestly about the pros and cons of different social security systems and how yah like it's going to be completely wonderful ooh la la bif bof, then going back home and staring wild-eyed at the URSSAF freelancer's form before taking to my bed in despair.

Despite this momentous lack of proactivity, or indeed of any activity at all, the gods appear to be smiling on me in the shape of a colleague who passed my name along to a FINE contact in Paris, completely unaware that I was jumping the Belgian ship. Fruit was born left, right and centre, and I have my little toe in the door of hopefully regular work. Possibly the best part of this is that the whole process has been conducted in French, including "phone me on this number bofbofbahbofoignons or on this email address bahbahbahbuh@baguette-point-com", leaving me immensely pleased with myself (ignoring the fact that a mere 3 hours later I was frantically scouring the interwebs for the actual genuine email address, not the frankly improbable one I had written down). It was like GCSE listening exams, except without the awkwardly formal friendship between Peter and Astrid or holidays in the Schwarzwald (I was in the German half of the year, and a fat lot of good it's doing me now).

To celebrate my skillz, we took off for the weekend to a Franco-Mexican wedding in the depths of Drome-Provençal, near a fine village called Dieulefit. This translates roughly as 'It was God wot done it', and looking at field after field of lavender with a sprinkling of medieval castles and a dusting of nougat and goat's cheese, I think he might just have slipped out the the workshop on the 7th day when he was meant to be tucked up in bed with a nice book and knocked up a little extra helping of heaven on earth. I forgot my camera, but we knocked back the rosé and the guacamole, prowled hyena-like around the roasting sheep, ate a 1m2 clafoutis, and spent the next day at the pool. We oohed and aahed and got sunburnt like the good townies we are, and were back for work on Monday. Well, all except me. I was back for my fancy-pants French course I'm doing in the mornings and alternating between excessively high spirits at the thought of free afternoons in the sun and deep mournful depression at how very little I achieve in these afternoons. Bof.

Speaking of penniless on the Seine (which I was in the previous draft. Curses to my substandard editing skills, but I can't think of a link to put in here), National Geographic France for June had a great article on homeless people around Paris, well, actually people who live on the river in general, but a focus on those who have made their homes under the arches of the many bridges over the Seine. One man said he had been living there for 10 years, since he split up with his partner. He is currently employed, but still completing a training period after which he will have a permanent contract and be able to get an apartment. What struck me was that he has electricity and a TV (although no running water). He was even able to get his 'address' registered with La Poste to give to his employer, who has no idea he lives rough. The river police pop by every now and then for l'apéro.

This is something that has always struck me about Paris, the way in which the homeless are so entrenched, so permanently, hopelessly part of the cityscape. Take the bank opposite the terrace bar 25' Est, on the bassin de la Villette, for example. Here, there is a semi-permanent camp of sorts, where drinks are drunk, drugs are sold, and fights are fought: all of this 10 feet from children and their bikes and young professionals supping kirs in the late afternoon sun. Prime real estate, especially in summer. I'm not saying the poor or the homeless should be hurried out of my cosseted sight, but there seems to be no concern, no attempt to do anything. They just are.

I've got a lot to learn about my prospective home.

A moveable feast

2009-06-19T00:59:00.000+02:00

"I've seen you, beauty, and you belong to me now, whoever you are waiting for and if I never see you again, I thought. You belong to me and all Paris belongs to me and I belong to this notebook and this pencil."
Ernest Hemingway

I know many people are ambivalent about Paris, bordering on hysterically hostile. I know many people would give all the croissants in the world never to have to set foot there again. I know this in the same way that I know that if someone told me I had to go and live in Leeds again, I would gnaw off my own arm and fashion a getaway canoe out of it, even though, objectively, it is a fine city full of lovely people. The same way that I have friends and colleagues who want to marry Brussels and have little grey-suited pissing mannekins with it, whereas no amount of wannabelges could ever make me accept that I do both live and work here. It's odd, one man's foie gras, another man's fatty liver, and once the decision is made, it cannot be undone. Rio de Janeiro was my first city love, which is possibly why I'm so outraged at the world for having me live here instead.

Now I want Paris. I'm not going to go off on one about the city, as the world and his little yapping lap dog have already done so and will continue to do so till the Eiffel Tower rusts through. What I can do, however, is move there, and gosh darn it if that isn't just what I'm going to do. The first steps have been taken (if by first steps you understand checking up the necessary paperwork, photocopying my passport and birth certificate 20 times, and then throwing myself theatrically onto the bed in despair). In a step of quite mind-blowing impracticality, I will keep working in Brussels. Quite how this will pan out remains to be seen, but it is pretty much what I'm doing at the moment anyway, and in the last five days I have travelled Brussels-Paris-Brussels-Lisbon-Brussels-Paris and all the fun has been drained out of me till I'm a little rocking foetus with a giant carbon footprint.

I'm tired of telling myself "I just have to live here/like this/with these people for a few more months/years until I've done xxxx and am able live where I want and with the people I love for ever and ever amen". Life's too short, and it's raining in Brussels.

The Graveyard of Forgotten Books

2009-06-11T00:32:00.000+02:00

I have been resolutely chipping away at the coal face of half-read books, striving to reduce the stack of abandoned literary corpses reproaching me from the window-sill. Some degree of success, in that I finally turned the last page of Cien años de soledad; less so, perhaps, as it was through gritted teeth and shame-faced skim-reading that I finally declared victory (the joy of reading, anyone?). I have also triumphantly, and a little sadly, finished Jan Morris' Pax Britannica trilogy, as well as Los crímenes de Oxford, which means I don't have to read anything in Spanish until at least 2012 and La sombra del viento is going to have to pull out all the stops to warrant a place on the bedside table. Oscar and Lucinda is seemingly a lost cause, and Wiener Passion has been sent into semi-permanent exile, along with the entire German language (with all due respect).

Young upstarts elbowing their way into my hands include The Clothes on their Backs (Linda Grant), which I loved. It is marked for rereading, as I think it contained a good deal more wisdom than the Eurostar allowed me to absorb first time round. A surprising delight. I liked The Secret Scripture (Sebastian Barry), but not enough to read it again, or recommend it to anyone. A bit of a meh from me.

Français dans tous les sens is as dusty as it has ever been, but as far as French goes I think I can pretty much be admitted into the Académie Française right away as have just finished the last book in the Millenium trilogy. Yes, ho yes, in FRENCH. FRENCH, I tell you. Just call me Mlle. Birkin. It was partly because I had finished my book and had nothing else to hand, partly because it's not out in English till October (also, the boyfriend was coming to the end of the second book, and I have an ugly dog-in-the-manger streak which more often than not trumps commonsense). It's just the right kind of practical, unadorned language that I need right now. Balzac will not help me fill out my tax return. Nor will Stieg Larsson, admittedly, but I have at least learned the basics of cybercrime.

An unexpected joy came in the form of Kitchen Essays by (Lady) Agnes Jekyll, a collection of her essays written for The Times during 1921-22. Maybe she is horribly well-known to all, and I am 80-odd years late jumping on the fanwaggon, but how can I not applaud someone who dispenses such strikingly practical advice as this:

"George Herbert, in his poem beginning "Content thee, greedie heart!" reminds us with superfluous cruelty that we cannot "both eat our cake and have it," and although to try is as human as to fail, we should at least ascertain what our cake is made of and weigh carefully all its ingredients before deciding which we will do with it"

She is slightly further off the mark when recommending "a packet of the American cereal Puffed Wheat" as a substitute for salted almonds "in the best regulated dining-rooms", and I balked somewhat at the instruction to pass a salmon through a wire sieve, but I will nonetheless keep the book at my side to consult for all my future entertaining needs.

Small plate of tepid wheks in vapour of algae

2009-06-10T01:07:00.000+02:00

My gratitude for all the wondrous things in my life obviously overwhelmed me. Either that, or I was distracted by a piece of cake or a Belgian I could complain about. Short though my attention span is, I stubbornly insist on recording the fabulous week that was. In abridged form, though: I am grateful, but somewhat work-shy.

One weekend in England, four birthday cakes, six bottles of wine, 106 cups of tea, one hangover, four train journeys, nine tube replacement buses, one granny, 15 books, one hat exhibition, one over-tired, over-excited, tearful me coming home alone to eat ready-meal in dark.

Followed by one surprise knock at the door, one bunch of roses, one bottle of wine, one boyfriend-for-8-hours, one Polaroid camera, and one still tearful, but very happy me. (So happy, I even accompanied him to the station at 5:30 so he could get back to Paris to work. That never happens. Even at 5:30 pm)

Followed two days later by one car, four maps, two hotels, one fiiiiine coastline, four crepes, one jug of cider, two kir bretons, 1387 dolmens, one Côte de Granit Rose, 12 oysters, one seafood platter, two salted caramel icecreams, two croissants on the harbour, one feverish cold, one bottle of cough syrup, 26 strawberries, one forgotten set of hair-straighteners, one early-nineties-frizz fringe.

Followed ever since by staggered birthday parcels arriving, mainly with books in, all unexpected, and all utterly delightful. I am drowning in books, and play.com is not helping. Not only do they offer free postage ANYWHERE, but they save my card details, so my being too lazy to get up and look for my wallet is no longer reining in my reckless and spendthrift ways. The postage thing is especially nifty, as it means I order books individually, knowing they will then fit through the letterbox and not end up under lock and key at Brussel's sorting office. I'm a little bit impressed at my own ingenuity there, but, as I say, it must stop. I have no shelves, no desk, and a much-depleted bank account.

The tepid wheks were lovely. As was the vapour of algae. Salty.

10567 blessings and counting

2009-05-26T20:55:00.001+02:00

I'm watching baby albatrosses trying to fly and getting eaten by sharks on BBC2. It's terribly distressing and my eyebrows are locked in this shape / \ . Just two days after March of the Penguins and the frozen chicks. Baby birds, YOU ARE SLAUGHTERING ME AND MY PREVIOUSLY UNWRINKLED BROW

Anyway....that's not the point.

Here's the point. Down there.

I started this blog as an attempt to create my own lifeboat, a haven, a way to order my thoughts and anchor myself a little, steady myself in the unknown and just to tread water a little till everything shrunk to a more manageable size (that sentence has no doubt set sailors the world over spinning in their watery graves. Not to mention anyone who has the slightest affection for the English language). By setting something down in writing, it either allows me to work out what exactly is wrong, or makes me realise that it's not the end of the world. I do not intend to have readers, it's all for me me me. And my mental health.

Sometimes, though, it's just that the wonderful needs to be set down somewhere, recorded and made official. Otherwise it just gets jumbled away with memories of a beige t-shirt I once owned and bland cheese and lettuce sandwich I ate 17 years ago. If I'd started the blog earlier, I'd have some fantastic stories about what happened when I went to Colombia to meet the President and disgraced myself in a fit of giggles in front of the country's top-dog bishop on Ash Wednesday. As it is, I don't. Soz.

This must change, however, and this last week was full of blessings to count and future memories, and I insist on remembering them. It was wonderful, and must be set down to remind me that my life is not always rocking and teeth grinding in the rain.

And I shall set it down. Once I've made sure the rest of the albatrosses (albatri? albatrise?) have got home safe, wherever home may be (oh God, a whale is beached and getting sunburnt. What IS this programme....?)

For now, here is a photo taken with my brand-new birthday polaroid. Ironically, to get it up here I took a photo of it with a digital camera, and I'm sure there is a pithy aphorism in there about photographic Canutes and and unstoppable tide of technology, but I'll leave it to someone else to extricate.

Arcadia

2009-05-25T10:51:00.011+02:00

Fires can at times have far-reaching and not unpleasant repercussions, one of them being that I currently have the day off work (not that I was going to work there, but the Lord and the Commission move in mysterious ways, and who am I to question) and can sit in the sun pouring through the window with my eyes closed and pretend I am still in Brittany.

Me me me

2009-05-15T23:25:00.001+02:00

This weekend I am UK-bound, to sip tea and eat scones and marvel at hats at the V+A and drink cocktails and see a motley selection of friends and eat birthday cake because, yes, it will be my birthday. I will also be shedding a tear or two, as 20:30 in the evening of the day itself I will arrive all on my lonesome at the sodding arse-ugly Gare du Midi, which even the Belgians are too dispirited even to finish. Unless...it is unfinished, right? It's not meant to look like that, surely? Last time I was there, I took refuge in the Thalys 'lounge' (ha!) and a drunk came in and pissed in the corner. Two metres from a child in a buggy. That's not part of the unfinished nature of the station, but it is plain wrong, as is getting onto the train under the glorious arches of St Pancras, and getting off into the reinforced concrete and 70s decor of Midi.

(I'll never forgive Phyo-Phyo if she pops before I get back. Unless it's actually on my birthday. In which case, score.)

To compensate, my special day has been officially moved to Thursday, when we depart for Brittany and seafood and windswept cliffs. I chose the hotels, he is doing the driving, I do the navigation, he does the putting-up with me. A fine time will be had by all, especially me.

It's his birthday then too, incidentally, but I expect him to do the gentlemanly thing and postpone till next year.

Coming round to the notion of Belgium. Almost apathetic, in fact.

2009-05-11T19:35:00.000+02:00

I pass this graffiti on the way to the supermarket. It appeals to me, and each time I see it I wonder what it means.

Is it a call out by Belgian Nationalists to adopt protectionist measures and Buy Belgian, or face serious economic consequences for the next 3-5 years?

Is it an ultimatum by obscure German cannibalistic sect? "Sorry kids, there's no meat on Helga since she started pilates; it's Fritz for Abendessen tonight, and no pudding till I see clean plates all round"

Or is it simply a statement of fact, an attempt to cajoule Fritz into getting a few more frankfurters down him or accept Nature's course. "Eat, Fritz, or you'll be pushing up the daisies come Oktoberfest"

I'm a regular Mlle. Truss.

Actually, looking at it, it's probably the tag of the local skinheads and now they're going to track me down and stick waffle-bombs through the letter box till I go back to where I came from.

Along the same lines, I offer you searing in-depth social analysis of the Bruxellois and their ways, using West Side Story as a template. It tells you pretty much all you need to know about Belgium, through the medium of dance.

In other news, I saw Coco avant Chanel the other day and can recommend it. You will leave the cinema feeling svelte and wonderful and glide home. This feeling will last till you catch sight of yourself in a mirror and catch a whiff of the bitter scent of delusion. You will then feel worse than you did before seeing the film, so don't go at all, actually.

I went as the proud new owner of a unlimited access cinema card, and I went alone, for the first time in my life. That's me, breaking down self-imposed social barriers one at a time. Rocking.

Petit Suisse II

2009-05-07T22:00:00.002+02:00

It works, by the way

Just, you know, FYI.

Probably the proudest of myself I've been in years. And my nose is full of petit suisse.

But we laughed. Oh, how we laughed

The Devil and my idle hands

2009-05-05T22:34:00.007+02:00

I was outraged at having to do some work today, rather than sitting reading a magazine and drinking coffee for eight hours at a stretch. Not only that, but I will have to work everyday this week, and I'd forgotten how much it hurts my brain. My job is actually quite hard, which is why I avoid doing it as much as possible, and it always shocks me how your brain can shut down without so much as a by your leave, just er, hi, yeah, I'm out of here, good luck. The sod didn't even bother showing up to walk me home, which meant me stumbling through Brussels bouncing off cobbles and 3-metre-high piles of dog shit as I went.

Nor is it helping me to be inspired and witty right now. Instead, I am watching this over and over and giggling violently. No problem if you don't understand French, I've test-driven it for you. Not one single brain cell needed.

I saw the video for the first time at the weekend. Since Monday, this has been sitting in the fridge.

I'm not sure what I thought I was going to do with them when I bought them. I'll wait till my brain is back before making any rash decisions.

I'm so curious though...do you think it works?

For Jaywalker, on the occasion of her blogoversary

2009-04-29T14:10:00.002+02:00

The 3D wafflebara

Re. the last line of my last post

2009-04-28T21:52:00.001+02:00

Currently watching on Arte: CRISE: BIENTÔT LA REVOLUTION?

Gird up your berets, kids, it's time to put all you've learnt into practice

La plume de ma tante est sur le gaufre de mon père

2009-04-28T17:28:00.001+02:00

Most of my time these days is occupied with learning French. Or most of my theoretical time; in practice my time is spent sleeping, complaining, and clicking the refresh button. My approach to French-learning is fairly haphazard, but will be noted here for edification of future students.

The course takes about one year (results not guaranteed, understanding may go up as well as down, you will never ever ever learn irregular verbs, or possibly any verbs at all). This is how it works:

- Show no interest in France or the French for 20-30 years (or as many as you have at your disposal), during which you should learn any other languages going.

- Get French boyfriend and move to Brussels: simultaneous yet unrelated steps

- Start German lessons

- Write ode to Claude François, and rest on laurels for 3 months

- Talk to boss, realise career going nowhere

- Devise own study programme:
1: Arbitrary film session in bed c.14:00 every day. You are not expected to understand a word, but the pictures tend to be quite nice
2: Buy Closer when on display next to supermarket till. If not available, you are free to read nothing
3: Weekends in Provence with boyfriend and friends are worth 14758 study credits. Pat on the back. If they involve excessive drinking, 500 credit bonus, as you will now be fluent.
4: Read garance doré (English version)

- Promise boss in exchange for hard cash will be fluent by November

- Panic

- Eat baguette, buy onions and Breton sweater.

- Promise boss in exchange for more hard cash will be fluent in German by November 2010

- Panic

- Listen to Claude Francois on loop, realise all not lost as you now understand his lessons for life.

- As a test, go to maison communale and get into a fight in French. Win.

Eat croissants and macarons for ever and ever amen, my child, you now speak French and deserve it. Go forth and smoke thin cigarettes, wear black, and carry Le monde under your arm wherever you may go. Remember to sneer a little, and if it all goes to pot, go on strike.

Out of action

2009-04-22T16:18:00.001+02:00

I have taken to my bed with tea and biscuits to see out the rest of the day. It has all been too much, quite frankly, and today's indisposition has been aggravated by the terrifying sight of three sets of tax returns, all three possibly very late, and all equally incomprehensible. Apparently dilly-dallying between three different countries and having your residence and domicile opposite sides of the channel yet not actually, er, living in either of those places is frowned upon by tax authorities the world over.

Strop not helped by the fact that the Belgian in the broom cupboard who chooses the metro music was apparently made single-handedly responsible for updating the Brussels metro network for the 21st century (until now Brussels had a grand total of 2 lines. A circle line and a straight one, with split ends either side). His modus operandi seemed to consist of taking a pair of scissors and a felt-tip pen to the old map and tah dah! Look, Mum, 6 lines! And I didn't even have to build any new tunnels or carry out any work at all. If you don't look to closely, you won't realise the lines are numbered 1,2, 5 and 6, either. Sweet Lord, it's a MIRACLE!

Let's ignore the fact the new map is completely incomprehensible, the two final stops of one of the lines appear to have the same name, the circle line is now split into 27 different lines, and that both maps are still on display everywhere, to make life easier for tourists and me. Let's also ignore the fact I just absent-mindedly reached out for my tea and stuck my hand straight into the mug, thus destroying the tottering pile of books I had sensibly employed as a biscuit table.

Instead, I shall find a trilby, and a bar in Paris, and a plaid skirt and dance it out.

If that doesn't do the trick, I'll turn to the 40 sec mark in this clip, where it all kicks off. Claude François is only about 2'6", so go and marvel at his confidence at being surrounded by Amazons and his 5" stacked heels.

Hitting the bottle is also acceptable

"In her, ignorance and stupidity formed a perfect shield against the world: this, I suppose, is innocence"*

2009-04-19T21:03:00.018+02:00

Aside from how to banish the eau de middle-class oak-smoked loch-muir saumon pervading my apartment and stubbornly clinging to everything I own, I have another quandry, of a literary nature. In 2007, I started reading Oscar and Lucinda (Peter Carey). So far, so good; I loved it, from the very first words ('If there was a bishop, my mother would have him to tea'). It reads so easily, and drew me in and absorbed me utterly for 400-odd pages. Unfortunately Mr Carey soon became a victim of his own literary prowess, as the sense of impending doom had by that stage reached such an intensity that I am now stuck on page 414, unable to bring myself either to cast it aside for good or to keep reading to the inevitable tragic conclusion. It's very odd, this has never happened before, and I'm sure I just need a good shake and stiff talking to. My fear of fictitious events, however, appears to be greater than any common sense I may have acquired over the years, and, as ever, denial rules supreme in my life.

Nor are Oscar and Lucinda and the mother and the bishops alone on the dusty shelf of jilted books. I'm a veritable floozy when it comes to books, a problem enhanced by buying junk food in book form at railway stations and devouring them in a day, in doing so casting aside the worthy and sensibly-shod alternatives I brought for the journey who are relegated to the suitcase or possibly the bookcase. It's reached the point where I have decided not to let myself start another book without finishing at least one of the ones already making me feel bad.

(The station strumpets aren't all bad, they tend to be Whsmith top-of-the-pops fiction which can be hit or miss. The last was a definite hit, Sea of Poppies (Amitav Ghosh). Big thumbs up.)

Here's what's currently lurking in the shadows and throwing wounded glances at the stacks of Elle and the Macbook:

Cien años de soledad - Gabriel García Marquéz: Loved it. I'm a sucker for magical realism and here the beauty and flow of the writing just takes you. This one got abandoned after a couple of long train trips to Luxembourg, for no reason, perhaps just because it's in Spanish and I'm a lazy sod.

Wiener Passion - Lilian Faschinger: I hear this is a rollicking good mystery, The-Name-of-the-Rose style, homesick young girl finds ancient manuscript, all true scout's honour and let the games commence. I wouldn't know, as am obtuse enough to read it in German, and have yet to find a paragraph break or speech mark. I refuse to abandon it entirely, however, as what I have read is good and, well, rollicking. Set in Vienna, with Bohemians, Bavarians, illegitimate children of rich landowners and poor servant girls behind bars for crimes they never dreamed of committing. Hot stuff.

Los crímenes de Oxford (The Oxford Murders) - Guillermo Martínez: a lot thinner than I expected, and in the same vein as, um, perhaps The da Vinci Code, but with an Argentinian in Oxford with maths, instead of Tom Cruise in Paris with dodgy church history. This got left behind last time I went to visit my parents and I started another book. No excuse.

Farewell the Trumpets - Jan Morris: I cannot do this justice, so refuse to try for the time being. The final book in her trilogy on the British Empire. Her use of languages enthralls, inspires and fascinates me; her anecdotes, her life, her....read it. Now. Haven't abandoned this one, in fact I read the first of the three long into the night, meaning breakfast was had in stony silence due to my repeated shaking of sleeping shoulders "Listen to this! Did you know...."

Europe - Jan Morris: Only a few pages in, as started in desperation in cold turkey brought on by late delivery of the third Empire book. Will come back to anon.

Le français dans tout les sens - Henriette Walter: French historical linguistics. Very interesting, well written, but I'm a little unsure re. accuracy. Perhaps it's just because it's written in very popular style, perhaps I'm just talking out of my arse. Me vs. the Academie Française; it's a close call. I stopped, mainly because in reading matter I tend to take path of least resistance, on which french linguistics is rarely to be found.

There are more, but I'm slightly horrified at my literary profligacy so will blithely ignore the rest, the ones I've only read a few pages of. Actually, I will flag up The State of Africa (Martin Meredith), because it was an excellent overview for someone starting from zero as far as Africa is concerned (I mean me, not the author). I left off reading only because it covers the last 50 years, and I wanted to finish the Jan Morris Empire books to fill in the woeful gaps in my knowledge before going on. It shall be welcomed back into the fold toot sweet.

And the book that has trumped the lot, keeping these wholesome gems from the bedside table for the time being? Flashman. I am one class act. A cheap date, if you will, in thrall to his britches and moustaches.

"bonny black cavalry whiskers, they can’t resist them".*

*Flashman. George Macdonald Fraser. Racy and educational. Any one who can write the line '...by then I'd grabbed fortune by the foreskin, so to speak' has a place on my bookshelf.

An auspicious return

2009-04-16T03:13:00.003+02:00

I am back to the interweb. In the last few hours I have:

Spilt M+S salmon salad and fruit salad into lovely (expensive) leather hand bag (and not noticed for FIVE HOURS. I mean, REALLY. A fish salad?)

Considered broken bottle of fish sauce wrapped in T-shirt and binned the lot.

Mourned the fate of the birthday present my sister gave me a month early and which is still wrapped but is now a wrapping-paper parcel full of broken bits of something really lovely.

Cursed my inability to pack, or to have nice things.

Made the bed, and shaken out all the tiny bits of tissue decimated by the washing machine. I now live in a snow dome.

I have also learned that typing 'clean leather' into Google does not always bring up the information sought, but can be educational in and of itself.

We played with life and lost

2009-04-03T01:03:00.016+02:00

Every now and then I'll get fixated on a particular song, one which can make everything better no matter what. Claude François had me sorted with his version of Jimmy Soul's If You Wanna Be Happy (and Jimmy Soul does no mean job himself), but then some sod got it taken off YouTube and I haven't been able to find it anywhere [update: it is here, but a mere shell of its former self without the video and its carefree dancers]

Flavour of the month is now Jeanne Moreau singing in Jules et Jim. I chose to watch this for the first time in a filthy mood, imagining it to be a cheery, black-and-white romp, loosely based on, if not starring, Topsy and Tim.

It's not. Starts off well enough, with healthy boyish japes, but as soon as they hit the gym and start bringing strange girls home it all kicks off. Loose morals, deviancy, murder, mènage à trois....I was fooled by Jim's (Jules'?) lovely hair and the rural setting; I don't want you to make the same mistake.

On to the song. Beautiful, and I am swaying and dreaming of Breton sweaters and rakish young men who are no better than they should be.

Those who can, can

2009-03-30T14:36:00.002+02:00

I happened to be in the metro at the critical point last Friday when day turned to celebration of the weekend turned to night-time now will you all please calm down and not be at all rowdy any more thank you. All within the space of 3 songs:

Coldplay - something-something-drearsome

Offenbach - Orpheus in the Underworld, more commonly known as the Can Can

Bach - Air from Suite no. 3 in D major (I think)

What a medley! The Can Can burst out of the loudspeakers so unexpected and loud and incongruous that everyone on the platform started laughing delightedly (or at least cracked half a smile) and we were all jolly and full of good cheer. Much like Christmas, or a Richard Curtis film. And I waited for the next metro so I could hear it till the end.

I then wanted to look at can can dancers. Look! From 1943; imagine that in the metro. And look, these ones are from 1902! They are silent, but I think their bloomers speak for them.

And even older would you believe, just look at these minxes from 1898:

They look fairly manly, but they're certainly game, and full credit to the lady on the right who kept going despite the laddered stocking. In olden days you had to stand still for about 3 days to have your picture taken, so it's no surprise their legs have wilted somewhat.

Now go and play all three songs one after another, and marvel at the brains behind the music at Brussels city council. I'm off to press my petticoats.

"There you are, your own number on your very own door. And behind that door, your very own office! Welcome to the team, DZ-015"

2009-03-29T23:59:00.002+02:00

La Ville de Bruxelles processing plant where filthy foreigners go to be weighed, stamped, measured and drained of their souls is open from 8:00 till 13:00. If you wish to be processed, you may start queuing at 7:30, for the wait averages two hours, once, of course, you have queued for your ticket and permission to queue.

Tuesday morning I had been summoned, and asked to bring an Annexe 19, 8a, doc. p pr[illegible] (hand-written summons, naturally), a slice of the moon and the lyrics to Jacques Brel's Le Plat Pays, in Flemish. I waited my three hours. A mistake had been made, the wrong summons sent, I didn't have to come, oh ho ho ho, mais tant mieux pour vous madame, n'est-ce pas? Tant mieux for you, you twat, that at some point in the past it was considered advisable to seal up the speaking hole in the plastic window for your own safety...I am referred for further processing to the Service de la population, for Belgians and foreigners whose spirits have been almost entirely crushed, where the plasterboard is freshly-painted, the windows are occasionally opened, and there is a sense of hope in the air. Here the wait is a mere 20 minutes.

Before I am granted the ID card I don't really want, and granted permission to live in a country I have all the right in the world to live in anyway, I must answer a Question.

"Do you like Belgium?"

Not a trace of irony. I considered telling the truth...but they have punishments at their disposal which Dante himself would have blanched at. Not worth it.

I have to go back in 3 weeks. My third visit this year. All I wanted to do was register a change of address: apparently this whole farce is necessary to make sure I'm not subletting to sex-offenders and off hawking crack-laced waffles to the young of Brussels. Who - in my area at least - are quite capable of lacing their own waffles.

Next time I shall move to Cuba and have done with it.

In which I confirm my position as Film Reviewer in Chief

2009-03-26T23:24:00.001+01:00

Once again bringing the full weight of my knowledge of French history, culture and cinema to bear on arbitrary films of my own choosing.

With the inevitability with which night follows day, Lesson II looks at the only film which could logically follow Le Père Noël est une ordure: the very similar, yet simultaneously very different, Indigènes. We have left the streets of Paris and the deranged social outcasts which roam them and proceed as is only natural to the battlefields of France through the eyes of North-African soldiers, recruited to the French First Army in the last years of World War II.*

Let's just take a moment for Jamel Debbouze (although Christ, he's so wee! Perhaps shorter than me even. He was in a cafe in Paris and I almost didn't see him over the table). I want his eyes. Possibly in a box beside my bed, but preferably in his head on his body beside my bed. Or in it.

I was more than a little gripped by this film, and had a big wobbly cartoon down-turned mouth by the end. A bit of a French Saving Private Ryan, sniffed at as a cliché and predictable by some of Those In The Know, but even so it made me ever so angry. I'm a bit late jumping on the outrage bandwagon, however, as when the film was released in 2006 it caused something of a stir. In a fit of pique at losing the colonies, de Gaulle whipped out the non non non and cut off all aid immediately, a step which included freezing war pensions for 40-odd years: North-Africans who fought for France were getting €61 a month in 2006, compared to €690 a month for a French veteran.

The film does push this point a fair bit, and (word on the street has it) after blubbing his way through it, Chirac swore to right the wrongs of his forefathers and welcome the outcasts back into the financial fold. Not that much of an effort, to be honest, as the measure was not retrospective, nor did it apply to wives or children of veterans. And we are talking 60 years after the event now, so the State wallet shouldn't be hit too hard.

Excellent film, well worth a look. Additional reading can be found here: L'express. I do think it's important to incorporate a variety of resources into my French classes, it's essential for the development of a well-rounded character, don't you think?

*I was very tempted to do a Wikipedia link there, in the style of infuriating and patronising Guardian articles which link words like 'fashion' and 'restaurant' to the relevant sections. Like here, or 'toys' and 'family' here. Gah.

This is how I look when I leave the house in the morning

2009-03-19T21:15:00.005+01:00

In my head

miss capricho

All roads lead to procrastination...

2009-03-17T22:43:00.008+01:00

Learning French through the medium of film is fantastic, in theory. Until a year ago, France and French culture had completely passed me by; I had spent more time and energy on the Hispanic side of things, and although I could recite Camões backwards through a mouthful of feijão, I'd have been hard-pushed to name any French film other than Amelie.

Now I've been dropped in it, fairly abruptly, it's absolutely brilliant discovering such a rich world, all at once, at an age and a point in my life where I can and want to immerse myself in it completely, and piss everyone off with my 'little known facts', such as France having had a revolution, and being situated just the other side of the Channel. There's a tunnel underneath, actually under the sea, it's terribly exciting.

This makes it all the more depressing that French Language and Culture lesson No. 1267a (Monk's Patented) was that cinematic milestone Le Père Noël est une ordure, and that all I took away from the film is this:

I have no further point to make. Just that I shall now go and buy a roll of tweed to cover my apartment and to craft into a three-piece, so when I have had a miserable day I can lie flat and blend in, and yet still look incredibly stylish. Before that, I shall stroll the interweb to find nicely-cut lady suits, before getting sidetracked by a flashing light somewhere and wandering off forgetting all this had ever happened.

My education is coming along a treat

P.S. I love how the checks on the pattern are so perfectly lined up.

The ultimate free-biscuit tale of woe

2009-03-11T17:58:00.002+01:00

A Royal Navy ship moored in Rio de Janeiro in the blazing sun of Christmas 2004 and held a drinks reception on board to rally the poor homesick sailors and to keep the stiff upper lip flying for the British. Initial disappointment at the 50 spotty teenage recruits waiting to jump us as we boarded (rather than the spit-polished and pleated Brandos we were expecting) soon forgotten when faced by tray after tray of sausage rolls and cheese and pineapple sticks, washed down with G+Ts and real actual cold white wine. A good time was had by all, mementoes were purloined, sailor hats were thieved, and in the early hours headaches were carted off to bed to be cosseted with tea and toast till the next afternoon.

The appreciation expressed for cheesy sticks the previous night obviously had not gone unnoticed, and luckily the Navy has no truck with this faddish eat local, free trade, Brazilian beef and fried natives nonsense. From the 40l brown paper sack and mammoth cardboard box which appeared on the doorstep later that day, it seems that they stock up on enough Granny Smiths and custard creams before leaving, and the fact that some of the spotty recruits had gone awol in the frenzied heat of Rio meant they'd misjudged the quantities. Whatever the reason, green apples and assorted individually-wrapped jammy dodgers, bourbons and chocolate digesitives were consumed non-stop for 2 weeks.

It was too much.

We took Christmas packs to the neighbours. We offered a variety pack to the homeless man who lived in a lorry outside our front door (He wasn't interested, which jarred with us English somewhat. Who turns down a jammy dodger?). We took to filling our pockets before leaving the house to distribute to any street kids we met on our way.

We never made it to the bottom of the box. We did, however, all put on a good stone that Christmas.

Let that be a lesson to you all.

Post-it notes to self

2009-03-10T11:12:00.003+01:00

Because my brain is like a sheet of cheap kitchen roll, more then willing to absorb all that comes its way, but in practice disintegrating at the first drop of moisture (read: information, useful or otherwise).

My impeccable good taste: Has been validated. Imagine my surprise to hear on France Inter that the Eileen Grey armchair in the Yves Saint Laurent auction had sold for nearly €22 million. Surprise because a) I understood, and b) I had chosen it as one of my two favourite items in the sale. Great, that's what I am.

Sushi: Is the perfect moving day dinner. On an upturned packing case, after 5 hours putting together €700-worth of flat-packed IKEA bland, screwing side tables into our legs (me) and drilling through the wall into the next-door-neighbour's loo (him). Yes, my current abode looks like Sweden was sick in 19th-century-Paris's pocket. Haussman is spinning in his grave, and I am graffitti-ing the walls to give the appartment a bit of an edge.

Doolally: What I am slowly going. Word comes from transit camp at Deolalie, near Bombay, where Brits oh-so-close to getting back to the green green fields would be driven bonkers by the heat and the boredom. Much like Chatelet, I imagine.

Crisps/Processed-cheese slices/Flat diet coke: Not to be eaten as comfort food, just because they are left over from trashy dinner. Broccoli, bananas, quality chocolate all acceptable alternatives. As are eclairs. Whipped cream in a can, however, is not.

Free food: (see above) Not to be eaten indiscriminately. Individually-wrapped biscuits, muffins, chocolates etc not to be eaten to the extent that I am unable to work and must lie on floor bloated with emulsifiers and preservatives till home time. Along the same lines, I like neither instant coffee nor fizzy drinks of any kind. The presence of a machine dispensing these drinks (for free) does not mean I should avail myself of its services. Especially not all at the same time.

Ascension: Acquired by Britain 1815, half-way between Africa and Brazil, no industry, no minerals, no use. Population in 1897: 60. How to deal with and administer such an awkward possession? Why, declare it a ship, of course, and pass the responsibility elsewhere. The island was under the control of the British Admiralty, governed by a Royal Navy Captain, and described by Darwin in the 1830s as 'a huge ship kept in first-rate order'. Wonderfully, Britannically practical.

Salon de l'Agriculture: Piglets are fantastic, like minature, uncontrollable missiles, in continuous motion until collision with wall/other piglet/mother. Also taste excellent with lentils. Ponies disappointing; bulls, on the other hand, immense.

Not having internet: Bad. Having internet soon, better.

Three reasons I am glad to be back in Brussels. A sentence I never thought would pass my lips

2009-03-03T21:34:00.005+01:00

1. As I mournfully stepped off the Thalys and descended into the stinking hole that passes as a metro round here (at this point I was pissed off. Can you tell?), the dulcet tones of Chris De Burgh swelled to meet me. Incredibly loud, and incredibly unsuited to my surroundings. But I sang along, lady in reeeeeeddddddd, all the way home.

2. Walking down my street, in the dark, I pass a young man who would normally make me clutch my bag tighter and sweat a tiny bit. As he passes, he looks at me intently, and without stopping says J'aime beaucoup votre coiffure. I giggle. And blush. And wish he could give international builder PR courses; what a difference it would make if we got that kind of chat on the way to work everyday, instead of waaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy [insert expletive of your choosing]

3. I hear there is a giant blue brain in Brussels. That's reason enough for me.

Also, I have been stuck in Les Halles shopping centre/metro/1st circle of hell for approximately a week now, and as I don't own or wear white pleather boots, studded denim, braids or a compass, I didn't enjoy it. I have never ever tried to get to Les Halles, have never wanted to be there, but it is this giant magnet stretching out under the hole of Paris that pulls me in every time. I dread the words "meet me at Chatelet at 8"....but which fucking Chatelet? Where? How? And most importantly why? It drains me. Sucks my soul down the never-ending escalators out to the banlieue, where it is probably involved in drug-dealing and loose-living. All too much for my staid English character, hence my relief at being back in Brussels.

Because, like, y'know, um...yeah

2009-02-20T16:12:00.002+01:00

I need to speak a lot and sound proper-like at work, which means it is unfortunate that I have a vocabulary of approximately 17 words, shrinking to eight when I'm nervous.

First edition of words which please me, and which I shall attempt to use regularly:

antediluvian (ok, perhaps not that regularly)

inchoate: imperfectly formed or formulated, being only partly in existence or operation

eschew: to avoid habitually especially on moral or practical ground

prolix: unduly prolonged or drawn out, too long; marked by or using an excess of words

candid

fillip: something tending to arouse or excite; stimulus or embellishment

If I can use them all in the same sentence, I will award myself a gold star and a week off. And the definitions are for myself, not because I assume you are all as ignorant as me.

With today's cup of tea

2009-02-20T15:23:00.003+01:00

Scoop and Vive la France (I know the links will be obsolete in a few days, but, you know, such is the transient nature of life, innit).

Did you know Evelyn Waugh's first wife was also called Evelyn? He-velyn and She-velyn. I love his books, but I imagine being married to him would have been hellish. Wit and searing social commentary from breakfast to dinner, and such pressure to be fascinating.

More social commentary here, at Stuff Parisians Like. It makes me laugh.

When the universal language of love loses something in translation

2009-02-18T22:00:00.013+01:00

Valentine's Day was sidelined this year, as we were going to a friend's wedding in deepest darkest rural France. I did get these roses though.

Unfortunately, they arrived two hours before leaving for Champagne, and apparently it's considered inappropriate to bring your own bouquet to a wedding. It's 'her day'. Or something. Cue childish peeve for the whole drive there, silence punctuated by whines, interspersed with moans and gritted teeth.

Luckily, despite leaving the heating on full for a weekend after leaving in a whirlwind of half-ironed shirts, laddered tights, and sulks, they were still there when I got back. As was this

Christ no, it's not a soft toy. You think I'd tolerate giant Moomin-faced horses as a gesture of romance at my age? Especially when I'd asked for, and was promised, a pony. A real one.

It is, however, considered animal cruelty under the laws of both France and Belgium (fact. I might even have checked) to keep a pony in a sixth-floor one-room apartment, and I'm in no position to afford stabling fees at present. Which is why...

Yes, a space-hopper. A space-hopper pony. It's genius.

One hitch is his repeated exhortations to 'hump the pony' and refusal to believe hump does not mean ride. This has gone on for so long, I have begun to doubt myself, and wonder if he is a linguistic throwback to more innocent times. Upon checking the dictionary, I discover, indeed, that

Main Entry:²hump

Function: verb
Date: circa 1785

transitive verb

1 often vulgar : to copulate with
2: to exert (oneself) vigorously
3: to make humpbacked : hunch
4 chiefly British : to put or carry on the back : lug ; also : transport
intransitive verb
1: to exert oneself : hustle
2: to move swiftly : race

Who knew. I shall now defer to the Frenchman in all linguistic squabbles, and hump the pony merrily like there's no tomorrow.

"A Christies gift voucher? For €10 million? Oh, but you shouldn't have..."

2009-02-18T15:45:00.006+01:00

Since you have seen fit to be so generous, it would be churlish to refuse. And someone has to keep the money flowing in these troubled times, after all. But how to choose? €10 million only goes so far when I have €300 million-worth in front of me.

In the end I opt for a small Matisse (estimate €4-6 million)

And a fantastic chair (estimate €2-3 million)
The chair I want, I yearn for. It is by Eileen Gray, who apart from having excellent taste in leather and lacquer, also cultivated a fine set of lady 'burns:You too can have a little bit of Yves Saint Laurent from here. It is a simply mind-blowing collection. Estimates start at a very reasonable €400 for a dagger, with the catalogue at €200 (a paperback though. Disappointing)

Would like to meet...

2009-02-17T21:35:00.005+01:00

___________________________________________________________________

Have books destroyed your life too? Shy shallow Anglophile, 34, seeks young woman to recreate timeless epic romance. Ability to ride camels, bribe border guards and write letters by whale oil lamp a must.
___________________________________________________________________

_____________________________________________________________

My door is always open. Mostly because I live in a barn. Farm-dwelling survivalist and rural hedge enthusiast. Man, 62.
box no. 03/04
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I'm leaning more towards the corrupt camel-rider, although the barn-life and hedge-enthusing does sound wonderfully relaxing. I imagine myself thus in 30 years:

I do like her headscarf.

LRB Classifieds

Pleasing

2009-02-17T21:12:00.006+01:00

This enchants me. I have ordered two sets, in order that I might be enchanted on a daily basis. I tell myself they are birthday presents, but we all know I will rip one open immediately, get all sweaty and bothered over a fiddly handbag, and the beautifully fine paper will disintegrate between my impatient and child-like fingers. Which is why I advise you to admire in theory, from a distance.

Available from www.oliverbonas.com in the UK

Bah, madame, normalement...

2008-12-11T20:36:00.005+01:00

I've been considering this blog from afar. Somewhat suspiciously. Deciding whether to get involved, or steer well clear.

Tipping the scales in the blog's favour, however, is an impending house move. If I have no outlet for my clenched-toothed GAAAAAH as I deal with it, I might as well start to tie myself to the tramlines and bid my farewells right now (effective on the one hand, as not one person would stop me, less so given that the tram only passes at 11:47 on a Tuesday in a leap year).

I have to grapple with the bank, convincing them that I don't want to insure the flat I will no longer be living it and that I actually live in my new flat. I have to convince the authorities I live there, but if they insist on calling at 11am on a weekday, they are unlikely to find me. I have to persuade the new bank (yes, it got to that stage) that I have a job and am a fine upstanding member of society by signing 57 copies of my ID with one hand tied behind my back singing La Brabançonne backwards.

And I have to find a car to move. It may well be easier to leave everything in the street and start over. Except the binmen would track me down and I'd be fined for leaving my household rubbish out on what is clearly a recycling day.

Brussels is my Albatross, and a weighty one at that.

One little pig and three large cakes

2008-07-17T22:37:00.010+02:00

I have spent a lot of my life living abroad. No good reason, other than....it just happened. Very little foward-planning or dream-realisation was involved, indeed I may be the most passive globetrotter ever to grace the beaches of Rio, but for one reason or another the UK has been deprived of my presence for a fair few years.

It all sounds mighty fine (and very often is) but what tends to happen is that amongst all the goodbye drinks and the welcome-home drinks, the normal everyday drinks become less frequent. The invitations which I always turned down start to dry up. And though I know my friends care as much for me as ever, and will indeed drop everything if I call in snotty-faced tears and say I'm coming to stay....er....tonight, and then I eat an entire cake and see a picture of a piglet wearing wellies and call and say 'panic over, hold the tissues, remake you plans, re-reserve your restaurants etc'...it's not the same really. There's only so many "Oh, I would have invited you, but I figured you'd be in Brazil'''s that I can hear (ignoring the fact that I was actually in Brazil) without feeling incredibly far away and detached. Fingers in too many international pies, spreading myself too thinly (if you'll excuse the faintly revolting mixed culinary metaphor), and ending up with many friend/acquaintances, but still, here and now, feeling incredibly lonely, as if I could lock myself in my room and die, and no one would realise for weeks.

Well, that does my family a disservice. And my boyfriend, to be fair. Ok, so, whatever.

Point being, I've never found living abroad a problem otherwise. Loved it. But this time...

After much thought and sofa-based cake-eating, I've come to the conclusion that part of the reason I have found this emigration lark so tricky to deal with (yes, I call it emigrating. Yes, I live 2 hours from England. So shoot me) is having SO MUCH FRICKING FREE TIME

I am fully aware that those of you who didn't hate me when I moaned about living in South America will surely be giving the screen the finger and deleting this blog from....wherever one keeps blogs (rookie), leaving me floating in self-pitying ether till the end of my days. But it's true.

My job leaves me with a lot of free time, through no choice of my own. Next year, I'll be working more and joining you all in swearing at my former self, but for now....well, I worked one day this week, one day next week....and that's it. Till September.

Leaving me with plenty of free time, which come next week will be filled, as is only right, with friends and boyfriend and wine and cake (third mention this post. I like cake. Making and eating it). But for now, I have too much thinking time.

Which does no one any good. Which is why it's time for the photo of the pig in the wellies....

Aaaaaah. That's better.

In which I say very little

2008-07-15T00:39:00.008+02:00

Well now, here we are, fancy title and all. Yes, I know, first template on blogger's list, but many things I may be (and hell, I will be, seeing as none of you know any better), computer-literate I am not).

Speaking of what I am, aside from stunningly attractive and frighteningly intelligent (cough), I'm not going to do a pithy four-line intro to my life, in the main because I think I would come off as terribly average and unblogworthy. I prefer to maintain a mysterious allure, for as long as is feasible.

Also, I have yet to determine the form this blog will take. Food may feature heavily, a healthy dose of angst, spot of shopping, and some travelling. We hope. To get started, here is a photo.