I've collected all the entries to this blog to the end of last year and have published them in an ebook. Go to:
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/doreenporter
samedi 17 septembre 2011
dimanche 28 août 2011
S is for Summer's almost over
S is for Summer’s almost over
Summer’s almost over. The aisles of supermarkets have been transformed for ‘la rentrée’ and are full of harassed parents consulting lists and parting with hundreds of Euros in preparation for their offsprings’ return to school.
Advertisers, meanwhile, think we all need something to occupy ourselves as the evenings draw in. In the UK, you get bombarded with ads for sofas that will arrive in time for Christmas. In France, ‘tis the season of part-works. So far, I could buy a weekly publication that will enable me to build a wooden boat for Tintin, or I might prefer to collect and admire miniature Egyptian figures or tiny Formula 1 racing cars. Only €1.99 for the first issue of each — don’t know how much subsequent ones will be. A lot more, no doubt.
I’m keeping my eyes open, though, for the series that offers me the chance to build a collection of genuine coins and bank notes from around the world. I suspect they will all come from places like Zimbabwe where inflation is running at around 1,000 per cent and a Euro will buy you more than 500 Zimbabwe dollars. I can but hope that one issue will feature cash from the UK. A £5 note for less than €2 would definitely be a bargain and I might buy several copies. But I expect it will be an old £1 or even a Scottish note on offer. Perhaps I’d better find the glue and start building Tintin his boat instead.
On a different subject, I’m always surprised how much more agreeable some things sound in French. I had to visit the dentist as I’d broken a tooth. The dentist trotted out the two words of English everyone in business here knows — ‘big problem’ — and informed me that the tooth in questions was ‘fatigué’ [tired]. I know just how it feels. But it sounds a lot better than ‘completely knackered’, doesn’t it?
The dentist told me I’d been very sensible to consult him so quickly as it gave him a better chance of saving the tooth. I didn’t mention that I’d had to wait over three weeks for an appointment. That’s another funny thing in France. Go to the doctor’s and if you need to see a specialist or have a scan at the hospital, they ask if you can go there that afternoon or the next day. But try and get to see a dentist within a few weeks and it’s another story.
mercredi 24 août 2011
S is for self-sufficincy
S is for self-sufficiency
It seems that everyone around me is embracing the Good Life. Even our octogenarian neighbours have cultivated a large field and look set to harvest enough fruit and vegetables to feed a small army. Our haul to date is three tomatoes, some iffy apples and a glut of plums. All is not lost, though — my rosemary bush is thriving and we have also gathered several sprigs of home-grown mint. Sadly, the coriander expired in the heat.
At any social gathering nowadays, everyone starts discussing their chickens, pigs, bees and I have even heard talk of alpacas. We have two cats (free range), three fish in a pond and an indeterminate number of frogs. We’ll have to jump on the bandwagon sooner or later – might have to go to a lotto [bingo] where the prize is that coveted live goat.
Chickens seem to be the most popular livestock, but there are pitfalls for the unwary. As one friend discovered, when ordering your chickens you need to specify that you want live ones, otherwise they come ready plucked. And someone else acquired six chicks looking forward to a future of delicious omelettes. They all turned out to be cockerels. Now, I just need to find a Euro, as I’ve been offered six eggs from a neighbour’s chickens… And there are rumours of aubergines, honey and melons wanting a good home.
I have no intention of turning vegetarian any time soon, but I have to admit feeling slightly uncomfortable at a recent barbecue where I ate chicken under the watchful gaze of our hosts’ three pullets. Rather like the time we had lunch (lamb, what else?) on a sheep farm under the baleful stare of sheep number 1071.
But we have embraced rural living. Only the other day I opened the car door to find some grasshoppers had made a nest in the door frame.
mercredi 17 août 2011
An A to Z of Life in France
H is for hitchhikers, hobbies and happiness
I was driving contentedly along a country road in the middle of nowhere, keeping my eyes out for (in no particular order), deer, 2CV drivers, stragglers from the Tour de France, and tractors, when I saw a couple and two small children hitchhiking at the side of the road. Now, I would never stop for hitchhikers in the UK, especially when on my own, but I felt a bit sorry for them as it was a pretty hot day. I told them I was only going a few miles up the road, but they beamed and squashed in among the debris from our last trip to England.
We soon established a common language, ie English — they were Flemish-speaking Belgians. And they had a sorry tale to tell. They were on holiday, had been out in a pedalo on a nearby lake and somehow dropped their car keys overboard, never to be seen again. A duplicate set was being sent from Belgium, but in the meantime they needed to eat, so were hitching to the nearest supermarket.
“You are on holiday?” asked the father.
“No,” I replied. “I live here.”
He nodded. “That is better.”
I presume he meant if you were a local you would be less likely to deposit your keys in a lake.
I asked him whether there was no possibility of retrieving the keys from their watery home.
“No,” he said. “It is very black.”
Then there was silence for the rest of the journey.
They’ll undoubtedly see the funny side of it in a few years’ time, and it probably brought them closer together as a family, but now Gavin knows why I always insist on taking a spare set of car keys if we go more than 10 miles from home. Not that I have any intention of going in a pedalo any time soon, you understand. But you have to be prepared.
This all made me think of things I have done in France that I would never have done in the UK. The list includes singing in public (suffice it to say that in one school report the comment was ‘Doreen is an enthusiastic, though not very musical pupil’). But apparently singing is good for the heart, soul and general well-being, so a friend started up a group where we belt out such classics as Fernando and When I’m Sixty-four, have a cup of tea and a piece of cake, and go home with a new lease of life.
I also tried watercolour painting, thinking it would be relaxing. I went to a ‘taster’ class where we spent two hours painting a picture of a green pepper. I took the masterpiece home and asked Gavin what he thought it was. ‘Is it a frog?’ he asked, somewhat hesitantly. Better stick to the writing.
I was driving contentedly along a country road in the middle of nowhere, keeping my eyes out for (in no particular order), deer, 2CV drivers, stragglers from the Tour de France, and tractors, when I saw a couple and two small children hitchhiking at the side of the road. Now, I would never stop for hitchhikers in the UK, especially when on my own, but I felt a bit sorry for them as it was a pretty hot day. I told them I was only going a few miles up the road, but they beamed and squashed in among the debris from our last trip to England.
We soon established a common language, ie English — they were Flemish-speaking Belgians. And they had a sorry tale to tell. They were on holiday, had been out in a pedalo on a nearby lake and somehow dropped their car keys overboard, never to be seen again. A duplicate set was being sent from Belgium, but in the meantime they needed to eat, so were hitching to the nearest supermarket.
“You are on holiday?” asked the father.
“No,” I replied. “I live here.”
He nodded. “That is better.”
I presume he meant if you were a local you would be less likely to deposit your keys in a lake.
I asked him whether there was no possibility of retrieving the keys from their watery home.
“No,” he said. “It is very black.”
Then there was silence for the rest of the journey.
They’ll undoubtedly see the funny side of it in a few years’ time, and it probably brought them closer together as a family, but now Gavin knows why I always insist on taking a spare set of car keys if we go more than 10 miles from home. Not that I have any intention of going in a pedalo any time soon, you understand. But you have to be prepared.
This all made me think of things I have done in France that I would never have done in the UK. The list includes singing in public (suffice it to say that in one school report the comment was ‘Doreen is an enthusiastic, though not very musical pupil’). But apparently singing is good for the heart, soul and general well-being, so a friend started up a group where we belt out such classics as Fernando and When I’m Sixty-four, have a cup of tea and a piece of cake, and go home with a new lease of life.
I also tried watercolour painting, thinking it would be relaxing. I went to a ‘taster’ class where we spent two hours painting a picture of a green pepper. I took the masterpiece home and asked Gavin what he thought it was. ‘Is it a frog?’ he asked, somewhat hesitantly. Better stick to the writing.
samedi 13 août 2011
An A to Z of Life in France
Back on the road again
It’s time to return to the subject of driving in France (See D is for Driving). It will make things easier for anyone intending to come and visit if I outline the five main rules of the road:
1. It is essential to drive as close as possible to the car in front.
2. If you must use your indicators, make sure you indicate in the opposite direction to the way you intend to turn.
3. On no account stop or slow down for pedestrians, whether or not they are on a pedestrian crossing.
4. Always maintain ‘priorité a droit’, even if you are emerging from a country track onto a dual carriageway and the signs say otherwise.
5. Ignore all signs.
Follow these rules and you will soon be driving like a native. If you’re lucky enough to reach your destination, you will probably need somewhere to park.
Some car parks and roadside parking spots demand you pay at a machine or display a disk issued by the town hall (it generally doesn’t matter which town hall, all the disks seem to be the same). All you need remember is that the only time you risk a fine is in the height of summer in a busy tourist area outside lunchtime.
At first sight, it might seem difficult to find a parking space in a place you don’t know, but here are some tips. Basically you can park anywhere, including:
1. On a pedestrian crossing.
2. In front of someone’s garage — just ignore the sign that the garage is in constant use, it obviously isn’t otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to park there in the first place.
3. In a space that is far too small for your car. OK, you may have to nudge the cars in front and behind you a few times, but everyone knows it’s a sign you belong to have some scrapes and dents on your car.
4. Too close to a neighbouring car; this is fine as long as both cars have sunroofs that can be used as exit routes. If, however, you have an elderly passenger who can’t be extricated this way, look for a parent and child parking space — nowhere does it specify ages.
5. Obstructing a busy thoroughfare, causing several Norbert Dentressangle
lorries to take a 50km detour.
When you return to you car — with any luck it will be in the same place you left it, give or take a shunt of a few metres — you are likely to find a plethora of advertising leaflets stuck under your windscreen wipers. These are usually printed on garish yellow paper (only official notices can be printed on white paper) and advertise anything from vide greniers [garage sales], to a bingo session where you can win a live goat or an invitation to a tea dance. On every leaflets is an exhortation not to drop it on the public highway. And no one does. Some rules are there to be obeyed.
It’s time to return to the subject of driving in France (See D is for Driving). It will make things easier for anyone intending to come and visit if I outline the five main rules of the road:
1. It is essential to drive as close as possible to the car in front.
2. If you must use your indicators, make sure you indicate in the opposite direction to the way you intend to turn.
3. On no account stop or slow down for pedestrians, whether or not they are on a pedestrian crossing.
4. Always maintain ‘priorité a droit’, even if you are emerging from a country track onto a dual carriageway and the signs say otherwise.
5. Ignore all signs.
Follow these rules and you will soon be driving like a native. If you’re lucky enough to reach your destination, you will probably need somewhere to park.
Some car parks and roadside parking spots demand you pay at a machine or display a disk issued by the town hall (it generally doesn’t matter which town hall, all the disks seem to be the same). All you need remember is that the only time you risk a fine is in the height of summer in a busy tourist area outside lunchtime.
At first sight, it might seem difficult to find a parking space in a place you don’t know, but here are some tips. Basically you can park anywhere, including:
1. On a pedestrian crossing.
2. In front of someone’s garage — just ignore the sign that the garage is in constant use, it obviously isn’t otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to park there in the first place.
3. In a space that is far too small for your car. OK, you may have to nudge the cars in front and behind you a few times, but everyone knows it’s a sign you belong to have some scrapes and dents on your car.
4. Too close to a neighbouring car; this is fine as long as both cars have sunroofs that can be used as exit routes. If, however, you have an elderly passenger who can’t be extricated this way, look for a parent and child parking space — nowhere does it specify ages.
5. Obstructing a busy thoroughfare, causing several Norbert Dentressangle
lorries to take a 50km detour.
When you return to you car — with any luck it will be in the same place you left it, give or take a shunt of a few metres — you are likely to find a plethora of advertising leaflets stuck under your windscreen wipers. These are usually printed on garish yellow paper (only official notices can be printed on white paper) and advertise anything from vide greniers [garage sales], to a bingo session where you can win a live goat or an invitation to a tea dance. On every leaflets is an exhortation not to drop it on the public highway. And no one does. Some rules are there to be obeyed.
vendredi 5 août 2011
An A to Z of Life in France
My computer doesn’t understand me
My computer doesn’t understand me. According to everything I’ve read, the ads and recommendations that pop up when you’re surfing the net are supposed to reflect you: your browsing and buying history and the profile the machine has built up about you.
I’ll give it the on-line shoe stores and even the anti-wrinkle cream ads that have started to appear since my last birthday. But I’m worried that it thinks I need an English-speaking rehab centre in Spain to help me deal with drink and drug problems.
Amazon is forever urging me to buy a Berlitz guide to Norway. I once went on a business trip to Stavanger, but that’s about the only connection I have to the country. Although I’m sure it’s well worth a visit, I’ve no plans to head there in the near future. Neither, despite Orange continually thrusting hotels in Budapest at me, does Hungary feature in my travel plans. Facebook, on the other hand, thinks I should go to Barcelona. Is that before or after rehab?
Now, the computer seems to have taken it upon itself to translate bits of anything it can find from French to English, even if it was in English to begin with (if you follow that). So a friend with the surname of Dormer has become Dorsea (mer in French = sea); and I was somewhat puzzled when informed I had an email from John Lewis, never having shopped there online. Actually, it was a friend called Jean (female) and the computer decided as Jean is the French for John, that’s what she should become. Then I started seeing the word Cat pop up on Facebook. Simple, once you get the hang of it: Facebook was offering me the chance to ‘chat’ with my friends, ‘chat’ is the French for ‘cat’, so that’s what I ended up with. Fancy a cat anyone?
The other day I decided to do some research involving the beautiful French island of Reunion. We went there on holiday a few years ago and wondered about going again. It proved fairly elusive until I found it under Meeting.
But perhaps the most puzzling are the emails from a company called Becquet about an elusive order. The computer insists they are from ‘Spoiler’. That one I haven’t yet worked out.
My computer doesn’t understand me. According to everything I’ve read, the ads and recommendations that pop up when you’re surfing the net are supposed to reflect you: your browsing and buying history and the profile the machine has built up about you.
I’ll give it the on-line shoe stores and even the anti-wrinkle cream ads that have started to appear since my last birthday. But I’m worried that it thinks I need an English-speaking rehab centre in Spain to help me deal with drink and drug problems.
Amazon is forever urging me to buy a Berlitz guide to Norway. I once went on a business trip to Stavanger, but that’s about the only connection I have to the country. Although I’m sure it’s well worth a visit, I’ve no plans to head there in the near future. Neither, despite Orange continually thrusting hotels in Budapest at me, does Hungary feature in my travel plans. Facebook, on the other hand, thinks I should go to Barcelona. Is that before or after rehab?
Now, the computer seems to have taken it upon itself to translate bits of anything it can find from French to English, even if it was in English to begin with (if you follow that). So a friend with the surname of Dormer has become Dorsea (mer in French = sea); and I was somewhat puzzled when informed I had an email from John Lewis, never having shopped there online. Actually, it was a friend called Jean (female) and the computer decided as Jean is the French for John, that’s what she should become. Then I started seeing the word Cat pop up on Facebook. Simple, once you get the hang of it: Facebook was offering me the chance to ‘chat’ with my friends, ‘chat’ is the French for ‘cat’, so that’s what I ended up with. Fancy a cat anyone?
The other day I decided to do some research involving the beautiful French island of Reunion. We went there on holiday a few years ago and wondered about going again. It proved fairly elusive until I found it under Meeting.
But perhaps the most puzzling are the emails from a company called Becquet about an elusive order. The computer insists they are from ‘Spoiler’. That one I haven’t yet worked out.
samedi 16 avril 2011
I is for ipad
Three go in search of an ipad
There comes a time, no matter how much you love France, when you need to visit friends in the UK. Friends like Marks & Spencer, Boots, Tesco’s, and my new BFF, the Apple store in Lakeside shopping centre.
My laptop conveniently stopped working a couple of weeks before our visit to England. So I booked an appointment with the Apple store where Mark or Steve could sort it out (I find everyone in the Apple stores are called Mark or Steve). Mark/Steve duly got everything going again and asked if there was anything else I wanted. “Yes,” I replied, “an ipad.” His face fell as he explained the only way to get an ipad was to go online after 9pm and reserve one. No, it wasn’t possible to reserve one in-store.
So, at 20.59 I duly went online. After several abortive attempts I got connected and clicked to reserve an ipad. I was then taken to a screen where I was ordered to put in my Apple ID. There had been no mention of this earlier. As far as I knew, I didn’t have one. I tried a few Apple-related numbers and phrases but was told each time that they were not correct. Try again! So I applied for an Apple ID. By the time I had got one, all the ipads had gone.
The next couple of times I tried to log on, complete with my Apple ID, I didn’t get anywhere near the reservation screen. Then, on our penultimate night in the UK, I noticed it no longer said you had to reserve your ipad, it merely said that the store would set it up for you. Not trusting anything the Apple website said after the ID debacle, I tried to seek out more information. My friend Helen, who we were staying with, tried to phone the Apple store. Although it wasn’t closing time, they had obviously shut down the phones.
So she tried the central Apple number, to be greeted by a virtual person with a Scottish accent. “Treat me like a real person,” said the VP cheerily, “and ask me your question.” Helen quite naturally asked whether ipads were now on general sale and, if so, could we get one at Lakeside. “The number for our Lakeside store is…” intoned VP. “Connecting you!” Of course there was no answer.
Next morning, we rang an Apple store at random and were told yes, ipads were on general sale – subject to availability! We went to Lakeside anyway. They were on sale and I even got a choice of colours. Mark/Steve did indeed set it up for me.
At one stage, I was required to enter my address. “It’s in France,” I said. “Cool,” said Mark/Steve. So I typed in my address. “Invalid postcode,” screamed the ‘system’. Mark/Steve informed me this information would never be used for anything (so why was I supplying it?). No matter. I entered a UK postcode from an old address at the end of my French one. The ‘system’ was happy; Mark/Steve was happy; I was happy.
And the reservation system hadn’t been a great success, confided Mark/Steve. You don’t say!
There comes a time, no matter how much you love France, when you need to visit friends in the UK. Friends like Marks & Spencer, Boots, Tesco’s, and my new BFF, the Apple store in Lakeside shopping centre.
My laptop conveniently stopped working a couple of weeks before our visit to England. So I booked an appointment with the Apple store where Mark or Steve could sort it out (I find everyone in the Apple stores are called Mark or Steve). Mark/Steve duly got everything going again and asked if there was anything else I wanted. “Yes,” I replied, “an ipad.” His face fell as he explained the only way to get an ipad was to go online after 9pm and reserve one. No, it wasn’t possible to reserve one in-store.
So, at 20.59 I duly went online. After several abortive attempts I got connected and clicked to reserve an ipad. I was then taken to a screen where I was ordered to put in my Apple ID. There had been no mention of this earlier. As far as I knew, I didn’t have one. I tried a few Apple-related numbers and phrases but was told each time that they were not correct. Try again! So I applied for an Apple ID. By the time I had got one, all the ipads had gone.
The next couple of times I tried to log on, complete with my Apple ID, I didn’t get anywhere near the reservation screen. Then, on our penultimate night in the UK, I noticed it no longer said you had to reserve your ipad, it merely said that the store would set it up for you. Not trusting anything the Apple website said after the ID debacle, I tried to seek out more information. My friend Helen, who we were staying with, tried to phone the Apple store. Although it wasn’t closing time, they had obviously shut down the phones.
So she tried the central Apple number, to be greeted by a virtual person with a Scottish accent. “Treat me like a real person,” said the VP cheerily, “and ask me your question.” Helen quite naturally asked whether ipads were now on general sale and, if so, could we get one at Lakeside. “The number for our Lakeside store is…” intoned VP. “Connecting you!” Of course there was no answer.
Next morning, we rang an Apple store at random and were told yes, ipads were on general sale – subject to availability! We went to Lakeside anyway. They were on sale and I even got a choice of colours. Mark/Steve did indeed set it up for me.
At one stage, I was required to enter my address. “It’s in France,” I said. “Cool,” said Mark/Steve. So I typed in my address. “Invalid postcode,” screamed the ‘system’. Mark/Steve informed me this information would never be used for anything (so why was I supplying it?). No matter. I entered a UK postcode from an old address at the end of my French one. The ‘system’ was happy; Mark/Steve was happy; I was happy.
And the reservation system hadn’t been a great success, confided Mark/Steve. You don’t say!
dimanche 30 janvier 2011
T i for Trees
T is for trees
Cela fait partie du train-train quotidian — It’s all in a day’s work
We have a garden. We have trees. So far, so good. The top branches of one tree are very near an overhead electricity cable. Not so good. Last year, when we got someone in to prune the trees, he said he couldn’t cut the tree near the cable as it was ‘trop dangereux’. He — and we — should therefore ring Electricité de France (EDF) to get the power turned off for the duration of the tree pruning operation.
He rang. We rang. Nothing happened. On the day, our man pruned the other trees, went to lunch and came back with an EDF lorry in tow. He had somehow met a couple of EDF workers in the local brasserie and hijacked them. With difficulty, they backed their truck into our drive and lopped off a few branches.
This year, we thought we would get ahead of the game and rang EDF asking them to come and sort out the tree. They arrived, six hours early, and said they didn’t cut trees. But you cut it last year, we said. Non, tree cutting was not part of their portfolio. However, they reassured us that, should anyone accidentally cut through the cable, it was insulated so they wouldn’t come to any harm. No matter that the lights might go out all over St Antonin.
So, it’s back to square one. Does anyone know a good tree pruner who is not afraid of electricity cables…?
jeudi 20 janvier 2011
A is for Adverts
A is for Adverts
Il faut de tout pour faire un monde — It takes all sorts to make a world
Ad agencies obviously like saving money. A lot of the TV ads you see in the UK are just dubbed for France (or vice versa). Some don’t even bother with the dubbing, so you get ads for cars and perfumes in their original language. The hope must be that the product sells itself. And we’ll draw a line under the Autoglass (UK) or Carglass (France) jingle that is as awful in both languages.
There also seem to be an awful lot of ads for ham in France.
My favourite ad here is for the supermarket chain Casino. It comes on most evenings, just before the news. It features two members of the public who live near each other, but apparently have never met. One goes round to the other’s house to cook a meal. The cook has to lug all the ingredients to the other house in their shopping trolley, cook a meal in a strange kitchen with unfamiliar cooker and utensils, while the host looks on, occasionally offering to chop a carrot or something. At the end, after many “Ohs” and “Ahs” about the lovely food, the person who did all the work cries happily “Next time it’s at my house”. My problem is, why didn’t they hold it at their house in the first place to save everyone a lot of time and trouble? Answers on a postcard…
We still have a little local cinema here. We get all the latest films, and a large selection of foreign-language films — anything from Hebrew to Japanese. We quite often get to see films long before they appear in the UK — we saw the latest Woody Allen several weeks ago.
When it comes to English-language films, you generally get a choice whether to watch it in the original version, ie in English with French sub-titles
(the 5pm performance), or dubbed completely into French (the 8.30pm performance). Every month a leaflet appears telling you what’s on over the next four weeks, but you generally have to be quick as most films only run for a few days.
The good thing about the cinema is you get absolutely no adverts. No trailers. No ads for the Star of Bengal, Coca Cola or Budweiser. Nothing. You go in, pay your €5.50, choose your seat, sit down, greet a friend or two, and watch the film. There’s not even a twee announcement asking you to turn off your mobile phone.
The process is slightly more complicated for the French members of the audience. They enter, they discuss animatedly the merits of various seats. They sit down. They get up. They move seats after more discussion. They sit down and enjoy the film.
The cinema is run by a local couple. She sells you the tickets; he stands a few steps from the box office and duly tears your ticket in half, while exhorting you to enjoy the film. At the end, as you all file out, he hopes you have enjoyed the film.
Now that’s what I call cinema.
Il faut de tout pour faire un monde — It takes all sorts to make a world
Ad agencies obviously like saving money. A lot of the TV ads you see in the UK are just dubbed for France (or vice versa). Some don’t even bother with the dubbing, so you get ads for cars and perfumes in their original language. The hope must be that the product sells itself. And we’ll draw a line under the Autoglass (UK) or Carglass (France) jingle that is as awful in both languages.
There also seem to be an awful lot of ads for ham in France.
My favourite ad here is for the supermarket chain Casino. It comes on most evenings, just before the news. It features two members of the public who live near each other, but apparently have never met. One goes round to the other’s house to cook a meal. The cook has to lug all the ingredients to the other house in their shopping trolley, cook a meal in a strange kitchen with unfamiliar cooker and utensils, while the host looks on, occasionally offering to chop a carrot or something. At the end, after many “Ohs” and “Ahs” about the lovely food, the person who did all the work cries happily “Next time it’s at my house”. My problem is, why didn’t they hold it at their house in the first place to save everyone a lot of time and trouble? Answers on a postcard…
We still have a little local cinema here. We get all the latest films, and a large selection of foreign-language films — anything from Hebrew to Japanese. We quite often get to see films long before they appear in the UK — we saw the latest Woody Allen several weeks ago.
When it comes to English-language films, you generally get a choice whether to watch it in the original version, ie in English with French sub-titles
(the 5pm performance), or dubbed completely into French (the 8.30pm performance). Every month a leaflet appears telling you what’s on over the next four weeks, but you generally have to be quick as most films only run for a few days.
The good thing about the cinema is you get absolutely no adverts. No trailers. No ads for the Star of Bengal, Coca Cola or Budweiser. Nothing. You go in, pay your €5.50, choose your seat, sit down, greet a friend or two, and watch the film. There’s not even a twee announcement asking you to turn off your mobile phone.
The process is slightly more complicated for the French members of the audience. They enter, they discuss animatedly the merits of various seats. They sit down. They get up. They move seats after more discussion. They sit down and enjoy the film.
The cinema is run by a local couple. She sells you the tickets; he stands a few steps from the box office and duly tears your ticket in half, while exhorting you to enjoy the film. At the end, as you all file out, he hopes you have enjoyed the film.
Now that’s what I call cinema.
lundi 10 janvier 2011
L is for Life in the car park
Tu me mets l’eau a la bouche — You are making my mouth water
Another day, another car park. This time we had our monthly rendezvous with a white van. Not just any white van, this one belongs to John the Butcher and we had come to collect our sausages. Having been a master butcher in the UK for 30 years, John moved to France, opened a shop and now supplies deprived Brits with their much-missed sausages — Cumberland, pork and leek, Lincoln, lamb and mint — you name it, he supplies it. You can also get other delicacies such as Cornish pasties, spare ribs, gammon steaks and pork crackling joints…
As a succession of Brits drew up to collect their goodies, many having driven quite a distance in the pouring rain to get there, we inevitably saw someone we knew. “Amazing what we’ll do for a sausage,” she said. Very true.
Driving there, I was reminded of what is a very French aspect of life (those of a sensitive disposition should stop reading now): gentlemen relieving themselves at the side of the road. Whatever the weather, they’re at it. They sometimes position themselves behind a car door, but more often than not perform in full view of anyone driving by. So I don’t know why I was surprised when, the other day, an old chap in a beret let flow by the bonnet of my car in the supermarket car park. I happened to be sitting in the car at the time. To be fair to the old boy, I doubt he saw me there, judging by the trouble he later had finding his car door and then the exit to the car park.
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