England Tour

So my summer tour around beautiful blighty has begun. I have started in the North, where my roots and parents are. Yesterday, due to extended caravanning plans on the part of my parents, I stayed with my sister and her husband who live half an hour or so away. We spent an extremely fun afternoon at Go Ape! (exclamation mark essential) in Sherwood Forest, where we swung from zip slides, climbed across rope ladders and swung out like tarzan. As you can imagine there were more than a few references to the oooooo ah ah ah sound of the legendary ape-man. This physical fun was rewarded with a delicious roast pork dinner prepared by my sister H. So, it's day 2 and I'm already being utterly spoilt, especially if you count the bacon and egg sandwich I wolfed down earlier.

It's nice to be at home, more so now I'm with my parents in the house where I grew up. I've just spent a very bittersweet couple of hours going through my old wardrobes and finding old lipsticks (was peach frost really a lip option in the early nineties?), glitter spray and some earrings in a variety of animal forms - yes I have dolphins, cats and even giraffes. It pains me to throw any of this old tat out, though I know I should.

Next step on the tour is picking up G from East Midlands Airport tomorrow morning. He enjoys coming to England for the curry, fish and chips and English practice, and he gets on well with my family so there's no problem there. After that we're going to stay with my grandma in the Nottingham area and to catch up with my cousin and her family. Later in the week we're heading further south, more on that later.

So if you'll excuse me I have to get back to Countdown, I think Carol Vorderman is going to be stumped by this numbers game.

Things That Go Bump In The Night

It's scorching hot and I'm currently fantasising about purchasing one of the above rather splendid swatters. In my anti-mosquito arsenal I now boast :

5/5 repellent spray against mosquitos, ticks, bees, wasps and other stinging insects (1 bottle)
5/5 plug-in repellant liquid (1 plug)
long-sleeved, long-legged cotton pyjamas (1 pair)

I fully appreciate that I'm lacking a safari-size mosquito net to hook above my bed (think Joanna Lumley in Girl Friday) but I haven't had time to go looking for one. After all, this is Paris not the Amazon Basin. Despite this very irrelevent information, I am forced to admit that my part of the Ile de France is somewhat more popular with biting insects than other areas.

You can't say I'm wasting my time though; I have spent some of this evening doing a translation for a friend and the other three hours looking very determined with a cunningly folded TIME magazine in my hand, a frown of single-minded concentration on my face and desire to murder itch-giving, ear-buzzing beasties cursing through what's left of my clearly delicious tasting blood. My legs are a ransacked banqueting hall of mosquito enjoyment and my arms are puffed up in strange places which makes me look either like I have well-defined biceps or like I'm smuggling grapes under my skin.

At least the temperature has dropped a little this evening and I'll no longer be allowed to complain about both the heat AND the mosquitos. During the writing of this post I have killed three mosquitos alone. Does anyone know where I can find a particularly hungry spider?

Dooced à l'anglaise

It has been only a matter of several months that I have been blogging on here, and while I have to say it is really a pleasure to click on the Site Meter (US spelling notwithstanding) and see that people have taken time out of their lives to read my rantings, increasing my readership is not my first intention. I'm happy with being able to share what's going on in my beloved city with the people who want to know.

I'm certain this was the case for Petite Anglaise (you can find her real name if you look hard enough) when she first started blogging two years ago. Her hilarious and true-to-life anecdotes on bi-cultural living from the point of view of a young English mum living in Paris were born of her desire to write and share her life with whoever was interested, as she says on her blog. I wonder if she ever imagined the impact her online diary would have on the internet community.

Yesterday, Petite Anglaise announced that her boss had fired her because of comments she had made on her blog and for the fact that she occasionally used company time to work on it. You can find the full story here and some of Petite's own responses here. Petite was dooced because her managers took offense at her (very brief and anonymous) anecdotes which never even mentioned the name of her employer (Dixon and Wilson - ironically now they are being named). It seems strange how these people now think they have a case against her when all she had done was post some old photos on her site, which, now having seen up to date pictures of her, look nothing like her.

All the managers have done is draw attention to themselves and to Petite, probably losing business for them and creating it for her. I have never mentioned my own company on here and don't plan to, especially now I've seen what can happen. Of course Petite's blog was being read by over three thousand people a day, obviously reaching many more people than my own. Now, thanks to her ex-employers, she has quadrupled her readership at least and has offers of publication and interviews streaming in.

Did I tell you about the time my boss.....?

80s Music Extravaganza

I have just discovered a fantastic web site which plays videos of hits from the 80s. I have spent the last twenty minutes admiring ABBA's multi-coloured knitwear, Dolly Parton's towering locks and Yazz's shiny cycling shorts. I'm not even going to go into details about the industrial setting from Fairground Attraction's video for Perfect which beggars belief, Beats International's gold-effect costume jewellery, which seems to have been around well before the term bling was ever coined, or the very scary people who can't seem to do anything but Walk Like an Egyptian.

So, excuse me for the brevity of the post, but I have to get back to Olivia Newton John, I think she's about to Get Physical.

Roo need to control yourself!

He can now wash, iron and put away his white and red strip for another few months. Or at least Colleen can. Poor Wayne Rooney, he's just a kid, but boy can he run and kick and, unfortunately, shove other players and get sent off. England's bash at a place in the semi-finals was badly dented by his post-foul absence on the pitch; the mean, pink-faced bulldog didn't get a chance to show his stuff and while the 10 remaining players did a great job against the fiery Portuguese, holding off into extra time and penalties, it was clear that penalty practice had been an elective activity for the team.

While I was watching the England - Portugal match with G, I was screaming, shouting and crying for England to just put one away, get it out, send it up etc. and to no avail. The air waves stubbornly didn't carry my good vibes all the way to Gelsenkirchen. This evening, yet again, we have a whole posse of friends coming to our apartment to enjoy France - Brazil. At this juncture I should pause to say that none of the said gang care remotely about football during the other three years between world cups, and the commentaries flying about the room are often hilarious. Roughly translated here are some of the gems we've been treated to over the last few weeks :

Friend A : "No! He was off-side wasn't he?"
Friend B : "No way, he aimed at the ball!"
Friend A : "What?"
Friend B : "What? What is off-side anyway? Isn't when the player kicks another instead of the ball?"
Friend C : "No, that's a free kick"
Friend A and B : "What?!"

A sexist would say they sounded like clueless girls, but no, they're just Frenchmen with jobs who don't care about football until it looks like their country might win; and suddenly interest is sparked, beer is drunk instead of wine and discussions at work around the coffee machine involve words like coup franc, tirer, and Zidane.

8.50pm Let's hope that on Wednesday we can still be rooting for France and that the biting pain of England's defeat is somewhat quelled. Bon courage!

1.30am There is tainted joy in my delight at France getting through to the semi finals, I would have preferred if England had raised St George's cross in victory too, but still, that is the way of sport. Not everyone can win!

Here, just outside the city limits of Paris there are drivers beeping their horns, people whooping from windows and getting together in public squares; finally France has rediscovered a national pride which is healthy and wholesome. Not a Le Penian racism or a nationalistic arrogance, but France is happy to have won, and there's nothing wrong with that.

Allez les bleus!

Late yesterday evening in the quiet, refined streets of Vincennes, between the Catholic cathedral and the Jewish synagogue; car horns, shouts of glee and whoops more reminiscent of wolves than humans filled the night air with a patriotic pride that has not been felt in more than 8 years of sport. France's team, les bleus, issued 3 stunning goals over the course of little more than 90 minutes, beating Spain to the quarter finals of the World Cup 2006. An onlooker could be forgiven for thinking that the joy in the air meant that France had won the cup already, as they did so convincingly in 1998. Zidane, Vieira and the spritely scarface Ribery brought the frogs their first win in a long time and the country is now buzzing with thoughts of victory over Brazil in the next round; ideas which until the start of the second half yesterday were considered pipe dreams.

As a rather girly girl having not more than a passing interest in football, I am surprised by the delight I have taken in this year's World Cup. I always like the Olympics and never miss at least a few minutes of the Paris Marathon, but club football has never caught my attention. This year I've found myself in front of Ukraine v Switzerland, Italy v Australia and other matches, with no patriotic interest at all, yet screaming at the tv with all my breath to encourage a goal by psychological power.

Maybe it's the fact that the French have been so pessimistic about their team of older players, the term une équipe de papi (grandad team) has been bandied about by the press. People at work today are replacing their 5-minute small talk at the coffee machine with 20 minutes of football talk. Middle-aged women are analysing the game with expert vocabulary, repeating what they've heard from husbands, boyfriends and other friends in the know. There is a lightness in the air and a fresh French pride which has been seriously lacking in the last few years.

Last night, despite the age of the équipe de papi, we were shown that experience can triumph over youth, and it's not all about being perky and energetic, but skills and brainpower have their rôle to play too.

With the scurrying approach of my 30th birthday that's all the good news I need to hear.

'Zique-fest

The sunglasses were not absolutely necessary, but we needed them for our rendition of 'It's Raining Men'. Why we didn't have umbrellas I'm not exactly sure. The light rain which sprinkled over Paris late on Wednesday evening was not really our idea of a perfect Fête de la Musique, but we had an extremely fun time and the punters seemed to like it! Our repertoire, which I have to admit is rather cheddar-y around the edges (BeeGees, ABBA, Donna Summer) went down well with the people who stopped and stayed and we certainly had a blast. My great friend L, the newest member of our group made a stunning start to her band performing and blew the onlookers away with her glittering rendition of Hot Stuff, and we all played / sang the Moulin Rouge theme Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir? the best we ever have.

I hope the audience enjoyed listening and watching as we did singing and dancing around like schoolgirls. It is really is one of the most essential joys in my life and despite the 6.30am start the next morning, I don't regret a single minute of the free time I devote to music.

Shut eye

How do you imagine being tired? Take an image of a mother of three forced to entertain, cook, work, taxi around and perform wifely duties. There it is right there. Fortunately I'm not that woman and the only excuse for my fatigue is self-inflicted excess activity.

When you enjoy doing things out of working hours, they tend to start ballooning. Take my choir for example. I adore being a part of it, but for the last few months it has taken up no fewer than 3 whole Saturdays, every single Monday night for the last 3 years (this being France, July and August aside) plus an extra four whole (enjoyable) days in Malta when I really should have been working. My band has taken up 3 hours every week for the last two years and costs at least 7€ a pop per rehearsal. Add to this the hours spent practising individually and you may well begin to wonder why anyone bothers. Yes, yes, the enjoyment outweighs the annoyance at seeing 1 free evening a week on my schedule, but at the moment I'm wondering why I commit so much time to these things.

Disappointment crash and burn is just around the corner, I know. It's the same every summer. June is chock-full of concerts, festivals and the fête de la musique - which in itself brings a two-concerts-in-one-night dilemma, then July arrives and suddenly free time is my new stalker. He doesn't seem to let me go, haunting me every day and never leaving my side except during working hours. He worms his way into every evening and reminds me of a musicless life I don't know yet. I become agitated, at a loss for a responsibility to uphold.

All this to say that this evening I'm exhausted and could do with an early night. I guess that's it.

On Tour

I was lucky enough to be taken on a free trip to Malta recently. The choir I sing with was invited to Malta for four days by the French and American Embassies there, to open a Music Festival. This involved, among other concerts, a performance at St John’s Co-Cathedral. This place is a stunning plethora of gold and wood and every square inch of space is decorated. The floor is laden with coloured marble tombs of Maltese knights and walking into the place you are transported to another world where the church ruled all. The Maltese Catholics really know how to show their faith.

The concert was an incredible experience. Malta is a small republic but nevertheless the presence of its President in the front of the audience filled the whole choir with adrenalin and apprehension – all the better to sing with. Concentration was as sharp as the heels on the dressed up Maltese women and we did the best we could to lift the golden roof. A standing ovation – rare in Malta – followed and our sopranos and altos fought back tears. Our director wasn’t so successful in her fight and her emotion moved us all to share in her happiness.

After we’d shaken off the adrenalin and pumping hearts we were able to enjoy Malta for its natural and architectural beauty. We were able to visit Valetta and Mdina during our short stay and it gave me real desire to come back as a schedule-free tourist. Our hotel was just wonderful, with an enormous and varied breakfast buffet, gorgeous marble floors and a pool set in lush gardens with its own bar. We managed to make the most of the pool for the only free afternoon on the schedule!

The food in Malta is something which has remained a mystery to me. Meals were obviously rushed affairs as we had to respect our tight rehearsal and concert schedule. I developed a tolerance for greasy pastry petits fours which I am glad to say have now taken a long-term absence from my diet. Having said that, the warm welcome we received far outshone the quality of the snacks – we were treated like stars. I hasten to add that we are not stars, nor ever will be, and are just an amateur choir who takes delight in singing.

My feet finally touched the ground at Roissy Charles de Gaulles Airport and now it’s back to the old routine.

 

A Loose End

So, it's party time all over France this weekend - today is a bank holiday and most people have also taken the opportunity of having another day off tomorrow to do the bridge faire le pont as they say, in other words it's a long weekend! Surprisingly enough, there doesn't seem to be too much upheaval on the rail system today.

Not so lucky for those taking the plane though. One of my best friends in the world from university who lives in Paris had her birthday two weeks ago and since she was on holiday we planned to celebrate it tonight. As her job as a high-flying staffing manager calls her away on business at least once a week she was planning to come in from Milan this evening. I'd reserved a table at OKI, the lovely sushi restaurant I mentioned in March, and was looking forward to an evening with the girls.

As is perhaps painfully obvious from the title of this post, my friend is not yet in Paris this evening, her flight in Milan was cancelled and now none of us get to eat delicious maki or sashimi, unless I call on the rather questionable local Chinese with spécialités japonaises. The poor girl is stuck in Milan and won't get back to Paris until late this evening, and of course sans birthday celebration. I didn't feel like having a dinner without her and so I'm thinking of spending the evening with the Desperate Housewives and a few glasses of Chablis. I suppose it could be worse.