Inflation – The Pensioner’s Nemesis

I was reading today that food prices in France have risen by 6.6% this year which means that by Jan 1^st 2009, they will probably have gone up even further. I know that this is not just a French problem  because prices in the UK have gone up by at least this amount. I never used to bother too much about inflation because when you were employed and you kept your nose clean, brought in the business and didn't insult your boss, you generally got a pay rise roughly in line with the inflation rate, so although you weren’t any better off at least you weren't any worse off. 

Now I’m a pensioner (only because I took my BT pension early I hasten to add), things are different. OK the BT pension is raised each year but probably not by 6.6%. My other pension (a BT AVC) does not rise at all (my choice) so this time next year I’ll be on deep-fried Bonios and Gravy for dinner….if I can afford the gravy that is. So whilst I sit and bemoan this inflation thing, it pales into insignificance when compared to the exchange rate movements between the Euro and the Pound. 

When I arrived in France nearly 10 years ago, I got 1.64 euros (or the equivalent in Francs) for each pound I transferred. Luckily I bought my house out here at that rate so in some respects I was lucky. A few years later after my assignment came to an end and BT wanted me back in the UK, I asked for and was granted the right to join BT France and be paid in Euros. They offered to convert my UK salary to Euros at 1.60 and I said……..NO ! What an idiot. I tried to get a raise to cover the extra income tax I would have paid in France but BT called my bluff and won and recalled me back to the UK (I never went)! I now sit here and cry when I think of that monumental error on my part but then again if I’d have taken the French contract I’d probably still be trying to convince potential clients to buy something from BT instead of spending quiet days looking up inflation rates on French government websites with a glass of chilled white wine on my desk ! 

The exchange rate is now about 1.25 Euros to the Pound and that movement has happened within the last 12 months, so in effect I’ve taken an 11% salary cut since last year when the rate was 1.40. 

Now I know what you’re all saying – he chose his bed so let him lie in it but I’m now a pensioner and everybody loves pensioners. They worry about them – are they being fed enough? Are they warm enough? I now spend my time working out when I’ll get my ‘winter heating allowance’ (yes – you get the money out here as well despite the fact that you can sunbathe on Boxing Day) and then I’ll get my State Pension (yes – you get that out here too) and then, hopefully, the Pound will have risen against the Euro and I might actually get a ‘pay’ rise.  The temptation, is of course, to transfer everything you’ve got in the UK into Euros and then forget about it but, ever the optimist, I fully expect the new Conservative government in 2010 to sort things out, the pound will rise and I’ll be a happy pensioner until some bright spark in the government wonders why they are paying the winter heating allowance to Brits on the Cote d’Azure……and stops it.

Deep Fried Mars Bars Please…..

Us ex-pat Brits are pathetic. We cannot go for a week without an infusion of baked beans. We empty the supermarket shelves of Daddies Brown sauce if we spot it for our shepherd’s pie and if we see anything resembling McVities Chocolate Digestives, a queue forms outside the shop. The French are appalled at the fact that we use Bisto Gravy Granules and they physically shudder when they hear we have bacon and eggs for breakfast. Even the local radio station has called it’s breakfast programme, The Full English….how naff is that ? But all that pales into insignificance when we know that there’s a decent curry house or a fish and chip shop in the locality – the locality for either of these two gastronomic delights being anything up to 100km! 

Let’s take curry houses first – they are not a patch on what you get in the UK but they try their best. They are staffed and owned by Indians so there’s no excuse really except that I remember an Indian curry shop owner, in Greenock of all places, telling me that much of the food they served was designed for the British palate – he said Pakora did not exist in India! So maybe the curry house in Grasse has adapted it’s food to suit the tastes of the French despite the fact that the majority of French would find a Korma unbearably hot. Anyway, the only dish they seem to do anywhere near the standards of the UK is Lamb Ghost (Lamb in Spinach). The Nans are ok but they don’t do Parathas which is my favourite bread. They do Onion Bhaji but not as you know it but they do serve Indian Beer which, I suppose is something. A bottle of Mouton Rothschild 1925 would be a bit over the top. But when you’re desperate you’ll drive the 15 miles or so to get there and you’ll have a satisfied tummy all the way home despite the fact that you feel that something was missing. 

Now Fish and Chips. There’s been several attempts to serve Fish and Chips to the masses of Brits down here, both those who live here and those who, on the 2^nd week of a holiday, just want something slightly less than a 5 course gourmet meal. There was a restaurant on one of the lakes in the Var (the next door region to us) who tried it but despite heavily advertising their Friday Fish and Chip nights it never seemed to take off. Maybe the fact that they were in the middle of absolute nowhere was the problem.

Then there is the camp site just a mile down the road from where I live who do, yes you’ve guessed it, Friday Fish and Chip nights. The problem there is that you never know what sort of fish they are serving. All sorts of finned beasts are fished out of the Med and served up as ‘white fish’ and it’s only when you see the flesh do you realise that it’s nothing like cod or haddock. And most of the people down there are French and Germans and who wants to eat fish and chips with them ?

And so I come to Zena’s (R.I.P.), the fish and chip shop in Antibes which is on the coast about 25 miles away and a good hour in the car. I heard about Zena’s only a couple of years ago and dragged J down there for dinner one night (I was feeling extravagant) and there it was, a real chippie with melamine tables and school style chairs. When I say a real chippie, I’m not sure they do take-aways but as we went for a sit-down meal we were happy. J had the cod (imported from England) and I had the steak Pie, both with chips. J had curry sauce and mushy peas whilst I just had lashings of gravy and mushy peas. The portions were enormous (well the fish was – pies are pies I suppose) and the chips were so good you would have driven the 25 miles just to eat them on their own. The problem was that there were no pickled onions, no gherkins and no pickled eggs. And there was certainly no Irn Bru! 

And so it was with a cry of delight that I heard today that my mate Ashley and his wife have bought a share in Zena’s and after taking over, plan to continue the tradition of a real chippie but with some changes. Poor Ashley and Jaynie. Everybody they talk to has their own idea about what they should serve. The normal request is for the pickles stated above but there are a couple of things which I forgot to tell Ashley today – so here’s my ideal menu for a chippie……. 

·        Deep Fried Pizzas

·        Deep Fried Sausages in Batter

·        Deep Fried Black Puddings in Batter

·        Steak and Kidney Pies

·        Deep Fried Scottish (Mutton) Pies

·        Deep Fried Pakora

·        Deep Fried Skinless Haddock

·        Deep Fried Mars Bars

·        Large Pickled Onions

·        Bread and Butter

·        Irn Bru

·        American Cream Soda

 Please Ashley. Please !

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD)

Now I don’t wish to make light of this affliction but I think I suffer from it. Well maybe a mild form of it – others can tell and form their own opinion. 

Today I was sitting having an afternoon aperitif or two with Ashley and Martine who was visiting from England. I noticed that as I put my wine glass down it had to be absolutely in the middle of three slats of our terrace table. Not just anywhere on the table top but precisely in the middle of three slats. When I put my glass down I did everything possible to put it down any old where, but no, within a second or two I was moving it so that it was in the middle of the three slats. This worried me. My garage is a work of art with tools on boards on the walls with all their shapes marked on the board so nobody is any doubt as to where they fit. My car is immaculate. My wardrobe is similar. My ties are all folded and I’ve even catalogued (most) of my DVDs. I iron my boxer shorts and wear my shirts in a strict order so that none of them feel left out.

J is always going on at me for being obsessively tidy and I admit I am. There is a place for everything and everything should be in its place. Without order there is disorder – chaos actually and I have never lived or worked in chaos in my life. O.k, I am anal, whatever, but if I wanted to live in a squat I’d have stayed in London or Glasgow. I just like tidiness......and order. 

Quite a few years back, and the name of the picture will give the decade, if not the year away, I went to the cinema with Julie and her eldest sister, Cindy. We went into Slough cause the fancy cinema at Maidenhead hadn’t opened then and whilst Slough was the pits, it was the nearest picture hall. Despite the fact that we always headed for a curry house as soon as the picture was over (and there was plenty of choice in Slough) I couldn’t stand the fact that the whole cinema was full of people eating take away curries. It wasn’t the curries they slurped and the pungent smell of onions and chutney so much as the popadums they kept cracking. It was excruciatingly annoying. Anyway, I digress slightly. 

The theme of the picture, Sleeping with the Enemy, for those who don’t know it was that Julia Roberts (gorgeous) was married to an OCD ‘sufferer’ (Patrick Bergin) who ruled her life. The towels in the bathroom had to be perfectly aligned (just like me), the glasses in the cocktail cabinet had to be placed to within a millimetre of each other (I don’t care – they’re used too often) and the cans in the pantry had to be placed in rows according to what they were, e.g. carrots in one line, peas in another and so forth, which is what I used to do (it’s sooo much easier when you’re drunk – I mean you don’t want canned carrots with a burger do you ?) Anyway, after years of this psycological and physical abuse she eventually faked her death and escaped his clutches, ran away and formed a new life. Eventually however, he tracked her down and she only knew this when she opened her pantry one night and found all the cans lined up neatly –just like her husband used to do - aaaaagh!   

Well, we returned from the cinema after our curry and later on that evening after watching that pretty intense film I went into the pantry to get some crisps or whatever and there, there in front of my very own eyes was ………………..a complete mess! All my rows of cans had been completely messed up. The carrots were mixed up with the peas. There were cans of beans intermingled with the corn niblets. It was utter chaos. After I murdered J and her sister (joke) I stayed up till midnight rearranging all my cans back into their rightful order. True ! 

Now one last thing about the film and one of the best lines ever in movie history was when Patrick Bergin, having tracked his wife down,  surprised her in her house after she'd discovered the neat lines of tins in the pantry. After a bit of a scuffle when he smacked her about a bit, she managed to floor him and then get hold of her gun (all American women have guns – believe me, I know). As he dragged himself back to his feet, being held at gunpoint, she called the police and said, ‘I’ve just killed a burglar’ ………and the rest (which I wont divulge but I'm sure you've guessed) is a great ending to a great but worrying film. 

Gone In Sixty Seconds

Just managed to struggle out of bed this morning (Saturday) and heard J speaking to the neighbour. Didn’t know whether it was Tan or Angie but I immediately thought ‘they’ve been burgled’. I don’t know why I thought that but unfortunately it was true. 

Went over to see them whilst J phoned the Gendarmes and as usual they’d come in in the middle of the night, had gone down the stairs and into the lounge where they took Angie’s mum’s 2 cameras, Angie’s laptop and one of Tan’s cameras. They’d then passed the main bedroom and had rifled through the make-up bags in the bathroom where lady’s apparently keep their jewellery. They'd then gone outside to look at their haul before taking a cushion cover off of the swing-sofa which they used to carry their booty away. And all this whilst 4 people were sleeping. 

They’d actually got in by taking the face plate off of the outside main door lock and then by using some sort of special tool, had cut the lock out which allowed them to open the front door. After that, and knowing the basic layout of the homes out here, they’d probably been in and out in a minute or so. 

The police came and whilst sympathetic, had said that it is virtually impossible to keep one’s home safe from these vermin. You can lock doors and they’ll get in. The bars on windows (out here it’s an insurance requirement) were no deterrent as they use car jacks to widen the bars and then squeeze through. The only thing they said might, and I will repeat, might stop them is a full video camera system but even then these guys (and I’m assuming they are guys) are probably not too worried if they get caught on camera because the burglary detection and prosecution rate is so small. The only thing which deters them (probably) is something which causes noise when they are breaking in so they never break glass and avoid deadbolts which make a noise when being loosened. 

It was a bad start to the weekend and even worse for Angie’s mum who is visiting from the states. She lost all the photos she’d taken of her little granddaughter over the previous 2 weeks. Angie’s laptop had all her music, all her photos and all her contacts and mails as well as a pile of other personal stuff, much of which will be impossible to replace or replicate. 

For the reason that I might get up one night and find some burglar wandering around the house, I have pick-axe handles scattered about the place. If I ever come across one of these scum I truly believe I would smash every bone in their body and then call the police. 

Back in Glasgow when I was just 12 our family had returned from a night out visiting relatives when, as my mother was opening the front door, a couple of youths pushed her aside and ran out. Our smallish dog ran after them and managed to get one in a corner and although pretty small her bared fangs had frightened him enough to keep him there. My father grabbed him, dragged him back to the house and put him in a corner of the lounge. He picked up a poker and I feared the worst but he merely handed me the poker and told me that if the guy moved I was to lay into him. He went off to the local phone box to call the police - we didn't have a phone in the house in those days! Of course, Patch the dog was beside me still baring her fangs but I was pretty scared of (a) the guy trying to make a break for it and (b) what my reaction would be. Would I be brave enough to wallop the guy ? It never came to that because the police arrived pretty quickly and off the miscreant went. He was local and only got the usual slap on the wrist and was out and about again the next day. I used to see this guy over the following few years and we probably both had our own thoughts. Could he have made a run for it and would I have smacked him with the poker? We’ll never know what might have happened.