Home Improvement

There used to be a programme on British tv, and no doubt on US tv too, called Home Improvement. I was never a fan, but one of my university housemates was, and now I wish I had joined her on the couch instead of prancing about dressed as a pirate singing Gilbert and Sullivan or belting out jazzy numbers in Bugsy Malone.

Last weekend, G and I went to a certain Swedish furniture shop near Roissy airport. It's not even interesting for me to tell you just how packed it was in there, with young couples fighting, hugely disproportionate numbers of pregnant women lumbering around, children scarily whizzing around the place like wasps and us trying to decide what kind of wardrobe doors we wanted.

We moved in together a year ago, and at that time we painted almost the whole apartment, bought a dining room table, chairs, a desk, a wardrobe (minus doors), a sofa, shelves and units over a period of three weeks. It was a pretty, let's say, hectic time, but I don't have memories of insurmountable stress or panic attacks. And yet, last Sunday with a 5cm pencil tucked behind my ear and a burning sensation between my eyes, we waited to pay for our measly two wardrobe doors - one white, one mirrored (to enjoy the sensation of living in a larger place than we do, and while admitting that two mirrored doors are perhaps a little too Boogie Nights).

As you can see from this extremely artistic photo, the doors are not level. G is an able D.I.Y.er; can put up shelves like the best of them, and not only drills like a dream but has saintly stocks of patience. So I wasn't concerned when the doors seemed a little tricky to deal with. I was soon proved to be naively mistaken. The doors were uneven by around 2 cm, they looked like something out of a Harry Potter film and definitely not what we had had in mind.

G has spent probably a total of 5 hours trying to fix the doors on properly and they still look like they're a little drunk. Next time we'll have to try a different furniture shop which doesn't whore out cheap planks of wood that won't even screw together.

Hippy Chick

I don't know if you've ever found, picked and eaten cep mushrooms, but it's a wonderful experience. These funghi grow in woods without anyone planting a seed. You can cut them away without damaging the future produce and they grow literally in just a few hours. All that, and they taste incredible. When we went to the Dordogne region recently, we were lucky enough to be given a whole bag full of ceps and we cooked them with garlic and parsley - they were delicious.

Fishing is another delight, when you can hook your dinner and prepare it within an hour, it is fresher than any fishmonger's supplies.

Yesterday a few friends came over for dinner, one brought with them a large bag full of ceps and other kinds of mushrooms, wrapped in bracken to keep them from being damaged. The other carried a little black bucket with four perch and one other whose name escapes me.

We decided that after my chicken, avacado and parmesan salad we'd cook the ceps and eat them separately from the fish to enjoy their flavours.

Clearly an evil brand of mushroom was lurking in the bag, because they ALL tasted terrible. Ceps have a soft luxurious taste not far from the taste of truffles, but these ones tasted like nothing I've ever willingly consumed. Needless to say, the pan remained full and we didn't eat more than the first bite. I thought of how dangerous eating poisonous mushrooms could be, but our friend assured me he knows what they look like, and here I am 20 hours later with no symptoms, so all turned out well.

The fish was not a lot better, bland and tasting like river, but my cherry tart and home-made yoghurt went down a treat. I think next time I'll stick to the market.

Small Packages

We had some baby news from inside our family recently, no details as it's not official with her work yet, but it has certainly got me thinking about babies and children. It's true that at 29, motherhood is a concept never far from my mind and while I truly do not want a baby at the moment, I am beginning to feel the onset of maternal instinct.

Walking home from the station this evening in 30°C heat, I noticed a young child probably around 18 months or 2 years at the most, walking with his mother, with his baby brother in a push-chair. In the distance, around 50 metres away, his father approached in the opposite direction, coming towards the little party, and the child's face lit up. His mouth made an 'O' in shock, his eyes shone as recognition set in then, giggling hysterically, his chubby little legs sprung into action and he raced towards his briefcase-carrying father with unconditional love beaming in his face.

I have no idea what that particular man had been doing all day, maybe he was a lawyer, a doctor, a teacher or an accountant; he could have just closed a million euro deal, he could have lost a million, but I can say with absolute certainty that the look in that father's eyes seeing his small son scurrying up to him, arms outstretched, was worth more than any business deal.

Of course when they arrived home the father realised his son had done a number two in his dungarees, spilt his favourite aftershave all over the bathroom and broken his treasured laptop.

I do want children, but maybe not yet.

Beautiful Packaging

As I picked my way through the Japanese tourists and ex-pats milling around rue St Anne, the Japanese quarter of Paris, I looked up at the sky and realised that we are in summer again. I say again because August was a (delightfully mosquito-free) cold month and I was convinced my yellow halter top had had its last airing. But no! It seems that there's someone somewhere playing a trick on all those (us) evil Parisians who took 4 weeks vacation and after an obscenely cold August, now everyone is glumly traipsing back to work, the sun has his hat, sunglasses and swimsuit on!

I don't normally work in the 2nd arrondissement but I was working there today and it really is a beautiful area. Having lived in Montmartre, and now living just outside the east of Paris, I never really got to know the area around the Louvre, the Palais Royal and the rue St Honoré.

Looking up at the buildings on my extended walk to a métro stop on my line, I was plunged into an architectural bran tub of history. On my right strolling up the rue St Honoré was the luxurious Hotel du Louvre, on the left the Comédie Française theatre. Further along the road and back towards the river I looked up and saw the sculpted glory of the Louvre museum itself adorned with images never to be seen by any but the most attentive of passers-by.

As I came closer the stairs to lead me down into the entrails of Paris I passed a homeless man with feet as dirty as the step he was lying on. A plastic bottle of red wine, uncapped, stood next to his sleeping form. On the other side of the road I saw a building covered with a kind of metallic lace. I paused to look more carefully but I neither understood what purpose that building served nor why the lacey metal was needed.

Perhaps a small part of the building budget for the 2nd arrondissement could find itself providing shelter, a square meal and skills training for those obliged to sleep barefoot on its streets, rather than dressing up buildings to look like wedding cakes. Paris is beautiful, but she comes as a whole package. We need to think about the safety of the heart of the package before giving all our money and attention to the wrapping paper.

Back to the Front Line

8am line 1, approaching Châtelet. The humid intense heat of the métro only briefly marrs my enjoyment of Ben Elton's new release The First Casualty but a sense of impending horror is settling around me as I approach my stop. Jostling myself out of the train with my thumb wedged in page 25, I try to whisk through the corridor at my normal pace and realise that my knee and back are throbbing more than is strictly desirable at this early hour. Being a newly recovered invalid is unnerving because I'm fine now, almost totally recovered, but the very first day back to work is not a time for skipping down public transport halls at 8am.

Line 4 is no better and if you know Paris you'll know it's even hotter; a damp quilt of hot air pressing down on all the unfortunate passengers. I try to imagine how Elton's semi-fictional characters must have felt during the First World War, as they, coughing like hags, knock-kneed, cursed through sludge. Obviously I'm a 29 year-old English girl living in the 21st Century on her way to her decent job and not a nineteen year-old Tommie with lice-ridden fatigues and a future of gas attacks and bullets. What I'm trying to say is that the métro was damn hot this morning.

The first rehearsal of my choir after our summer recess followed my first day back to work today, which was a double whammy of effort. I hadn't realised how easy it was to get used to relaxation. So now it's back to the old routine and there are hundreds of things I now realise I could have been doing instead of feeding my 24 habit, but sometimes you need to stop turning and get off the merry-go-round.

Convalescence - day 7

I can't believe it's already a week since I went under the knife. This staying at home watching films lark is pretty great actually. I read something somewhere about people who stay at home too long becoming almost institutionalised and not wanting to leave the house because of agoraphobia which develops when you spend long periods alone.

Having watched the whole of series one of 24, I'm now not only agoraphobic but have recurring nightmares about being kidnapped and no longer hear a noise in the apartment without thinking someone has come to get me! I finished the series yesterday, so today has been a lot more tranquil.

Aside from watching Kiefer Sutherland attempt death-defying stunts, this week I have made the following things to eat :

1. Rocket, parmesan and avocado salad (twice)
2. Tomato and mozzarella salad
3. Lasagne
4. Aubergine parmesan
5. Boeuf Bourgignon
6. Thai hot and sour soup
7. Dried beef and carrot salad with sesame oil
8. A chocolate orange cake (that's chocolate and orange, not as in Terry's)
9. Orange salad with cinnamon and orange blossom essence

As you can see, I haven't been sitting on the sofa all day. We've had friends or G's family over every night this week except last night; it actually gives me something to do. In the morning I do the washing-up, then sit and let my scars heal some more. Then in the afternoon I cook again and lay the table then rest again. I'm not supposed to walk very far or stand up for long periods, so I've nicely managed to marry cutting vegetables with tv watching. Very productive.

It's the second to last night tonight of entertaining and it's G's sister and her husband. We're also going to discover the start of a new series (in France), Prison Break. I know it's been on in the States and the UK for ages, but we're only just getting it on tv here now. I sound like a tv series addict, but believe me when you're supposed to be lying down for most of the day there's little else to do. (I know, I know, but I've already read two books this week, AND done a counted cross-stitch).

Now if you'll excuse me I'll have to get back to planning the final meal for tomorrow, it's my sister and her husband this time.

Convalescence - day 4

I have discovered 24 - the series with Kiefer Sutherland which takes place over 24 hours. I've watched from 12am to 4am already and I'm completely addicted.

G's parents are coming for dinner tonight so in between episodes I've made a lasagne and now I'm going to pop out to Monoprix and pick up some flour to make a Victoria Sponge. I thought I'd avoid trying to cook French food since I'm trying to impress!

I'm delighted to say that given the chilly weather we're being subjected to in Paris at the moment, there are no mosquitoes darkening my door. I'm bite-free, but unfortunately not quite pain-free yet. The cuts from my op are still hurting a bit and it's worse when I walk, so no métro for this week. I think it must be the very first week that I've lived in Paris that I haven't taken the smelly underground. No bad thing really. I prefer Kiefer Sutherland to dodgy métro men any day.

Convalescence - day 2

Yesterday I watched 2 films, one with George Clooney and one with Clive Owen. I did a counted cross-stitch of The Lion King and made prawn Thai-style noodles. That really is all I did yesterday. In the name of rest and relaxation I've bored myself stupid already, and I'm not even close to halfway through my 'arrêt de travail'.

Today G has been at home so it's been pretty much like a normal Saturday except I've had pain where my scars are forming. Thank goodness for Doliprane which has really helped to ease the soreness. Still, James Bond's Goldeneye took my mind off it for a couple of hours today.

Tomorrow I'm having some friends over from the band and the choir so I'm really looking forward to that. It'll be nice to be active in a conversation rather than imagining that everyone around me is in an action movie.

Convalescence - day 1

In the place I live - Paris, or even more realistically, France, at any mention of illness or pain the French jump on different kinds of treatment the same way an energetic labrador jumps on his long-awaited owner. I have experienced a few minor colds in the 6 years I've been living in France and people have given them names I can barely pronounce. Rhinopharyngite is what they call a common cold in France, then you have bronchite which I suppose should be bronchitis but it's far more common here than in the UK. More people than I can count on two hands complain of having migraines here whereas at home I knew of one person who suffered from them.

All that to say that when I have really needed medical care I have thanked my lucky twinkling stars that I do live in France.

Today is one of those days. Yesterday I went into hospital to have five moles removed. No tests were done prior to my admittance to hospital to find out if these moles were dangerous, but my dermatologist thought it would be prudent to have them removed.

I presumed that being a dermatologist, she would be the one to lay me down on the table, inject a little local anaesthetic and whip them off herself with a brisk slice of a fifteen blade. But no, this being France, medical things have to be done more than properly. She referred me to a wonderful plastic surgeon, another lady, and promised me that as I was a young woman, it would be better for me to have my surgery done by a true surgeon whose work was "vraiment beau". I suppose she meant, contrary to The Carver, that Beauty Is Not A Curse On The World, but should be sought out at all costs. I have to say, it's a trait to be cherished in skin specialists. (By the way if you haven't seen all of series 3 of Nip/Tuck don't read the link on The Carver).

So, yesterday with a full ten page dossier under my arm, and a full family of butterflies in my stomach, G and I set off to the hospital.

The experience was completely stress-free from start to finish. I was welcomed warmly by the nurses, the room they gave me (even though it was just for an afternoon) was modern and comfortable and I even had a post-operative snack. Again, this being France I was given fine biscuits and a little packet of very good soft cheese with a roll.

I found it extremely interesting to be awake during the operation, although awake is perhaps a slight exaggeration. The very kind and friendly anaesthetist (not unlike Liz) gave me an injection to make me relaxed and it soothed any remaining anxiety I may have had left while I was lying on the table ready for the knife. I was disappointed that there was no cool auto-CD player on to accompany the op like there is for Nip/Tuck.

So now I'm back home with five wounds to tend to. Because they're all in different places it's very difficult to remember not to catch them. I have little pieces of medical tape over them so I can't see the gory details yet, but I thought I'd leave you with a pre-op photo of the one behind my knee in all its former glory. It's now on its way to the lab to be analysed along with its four friends and I have to stay at home for ten days while the wounds heal.

Being a very active, busy person I don't expect to enjoy myself over the next ten days, but my blog will probably get a lot of attention. Watch this space for signs of insanity creeping up on me.

Back to School Blues

I don't really have to go back to school, just to work, but it feels like those last few days of holidays when you're thinking about all the nerve-wracking tests, new teachers and old bullies that you gleefully left behind in a swirl and a skip at the end of the summer term.

Truth be told I have had great holidays this year and they're not really over just yet. I visited the Dordogne region of France recently for a wedding - a high school friend of G's.

The village where we went, le Verneil, is an amazing place. It was created, literally, in the early seventies by a group of friends who wanted to leave Paris and live in the country and in true hippy style. They bought some old ruins of an empty hamlet and set about reconstructing the ruins into habitable houses. Now in their fifties, these people have successfully built their very own village, and bought the forest of several hectares surrounding it to avoid unwelcome newcomers to the area.

As friends, we were welcomed with open arms however, and life in the place is very warm and friendly. No doors are locked, people move in and out of each other's houses with a freedom rarely seen since the fifties. All the houses (there are 4 or 5) are private and there are common areas like the swimming pool (hippies but not poor...) and the grange where we had the wedding reception. The bride is the eldest daughter of one of the inhabitants of the hamlet, and the love they all share was palpable during the whole time we stayed there.

They are not completely self-sufficient in Le Verneil, but they grow vegetables, flowers and there is even a very generous man who picks mushrooms (ceps, no less) from the surrounding forest and sells them for a living and gives the rest to his friends. Suffice to say that we ate delicacies that in Paris cost over 20€ a kilo completely free.

Arriving on the périphérique yesterday evening I heard a carhorn beeping for the first time in over a week and it gave me the little stomach flip that nerves bring. I do have another four days before work starts again but knowing that I'm not going anywhere new or doing anything different does make me feel a little down.

Now, that pile of dirty washing is not going to put itself in the wash, and my newly purchased mosquito net seems to be winking at me from its sleek casing. Where's my stepladder?