9 January 2009

It Wouldn’t Happen in the UK

 It’s typical. Just as I spot something I can blog about, the Times’ French Correspondent blogs it first. Still, as he probably has a readership of several hundred thousand and my loyal congregation consist mainly of my immediate family, I suppose he has the right to use the subject matter first.

It’s all about the French Justice Minister, Rachida Dati (pictured), one of Sarkozy’s hand picked ‘maidens’ with whom he filled several cabinet posts when he came to power. General consensus is that they are all incompetent but none more so than Rachida, but she seems to be a pretty shrewd political operator and her most recent stunt of returning to work 5 days after a caesarean, not only has the whole of France talking but probably means that she is unsackable, a fate she was heading for before she had a bouncing baby girl on the 3rd Jan.

Now - I don’t intend to talk about her perceived incompetence. As she was a minor judge and is now the boss of all of France’s judges and I have yet to be called before the ‘beaks’ in France, I cannot comment, but nobody really gets to be even a minor judge without some degree of intelligence and common sense. It’s only when judges get old and grey do they lose their marbles – but she’s not at that stage yet – most certainly not. In fact she’s quite stunning but then again, good old Sarkozy does not go for plain women. Word is that when he was the Justice Minister (her post now) she fluttered her eyelashes and kept pestering him until he actually started taking her on official functions as his ‘escort’. The rest is probably down to good old lust.

And there is the story. Ms Dati is a single woman and refuses to say who the father of her new-born daughter is. There is enormous speculation about whether Sarkozy is the father. Not – the President, but his younger brother who visited her in hospital. Various other red-blooded males are also in the frame including the former Spanish Prime Minister but they are all declining the honour of admitting to fathering the child. 

Although the French press have it as a key political story, in the UK it would be a major scandal which would have every investigative reporter chasing every possible lead to uncover the father. In France, the privacy laws, which in the past have allowed Presidents to have mistresses who were widely known about and acknowledged, but not written about, prevent stories which are little more than polite speculation. In the UK, reporters would be following her every move and those of her many suitors but my money is on Sarkozy junior. I mean, what are big brothers for if not to pass on those gorgeous women they cannot date because they, themselves are already dating a supermodel?     

8 January 2009

Animal Farm

I never read George Orwell’s classic novel. I was never asked to read it at school and have never got round to reading it since. It’s probably a bit out-of-date now anyway, but the book came to mind the other evening when our friend Marj came to visit us and decided after dinner, to stay overnight. Not a problem, except that she  was accompanied by her friend’s two terriers. Given that we have Shadow (our dog) and two cats (Bijou and Coco), it was a recipe for animal chaos but after a faltering start everything worked out fine. The dogs slept on a blanket in the studio with Marj and were perfectly behaved.

The terriers, named Stacy and P1, (don’t ask) remained outside on the terrace at the start of the evening and seemed to be reasonably well behaved. Like every other dog who visits, they scoffed Shadow’s food within seconds of spotting it and, as usual, he couldn’t have cared less. He just watched them with his different coloured eyes and probably thought, ‘why bother getting into a scrap over some dried biscuits – anyway there’s two of them’. Then his water went in a flash and again, despite the fact that he loves his bowl of fresh water, there was complete indifference on his part. He couldn’t have cared less.

The cats however, were quite different in their approach to these strangers. They wandered into the kitchen quite unaware that two terriers were watching their every move through the glass door but as they approached their food bowls, they saw these two little faces looking at them. and backs arched, and hair standing on end, they retreated to the safety of the kitchen door where they could make a quick escape down the stairs if necessary. Stacy and P1, on the other hand, live with cats and so their reaction was one of bemusement as the two cats peered round the corner of the kitchen cabinet with glaring eyes.

After a few minutes, the cats decided that a phased withdrawal was called for and Bijou (Coco’s mother) slipped quietly and slowly backwards until she had made it to the stairs , followed by Coco, who from our previous experience of her exploits obviously fancies herself as something of a streetfighter, or in the current vogue, a cagefighter and who backed off more slowly and with a more menacing look on her face.

The cats gone, we allowed Stacy and P1 into the kitchen along with Shadow, who had decided it was his time to lie in front of the fire and snore. But before Shadow had left the kitchen, the terriers started scoffing the cat’s food. Now this is a complete no-no in our house. If Shadow is caught even sniffing the cat’s food he is roundly chastised and banished from the kitchen, but here he just looked at the terriers enjoying their second meal of the night and his face was a picture. You could see the thoughts going through his doggy mind about the total injustice of these two strangers being allowed to do what is regarded as a major felony in the Hellon/Cupples household. Anyway, Shadow watched them finish off their ‘main course’ followed by the large saucer of milk which the cats had not touched and then he turned and headed despondently for his spot in front of the fire, only to find two little terriers now wanting to play. 

His nice quiet life had been shattered and the look on his face as the terriers got up to even more mischief was a sight to gladden the heart of any animal psychologist.

It’s truly a dog’s life. 

7 January 2009

Winter Has Arrived


A fellow blogger, Jon Doust who writes in the Telegraph and who lives in south western France was complaining yesterday, that just like the UK, the merest dusting of snow in his area causes chaos with the roads unpassable, lack of provisions in stores, closures of schools and the like. You can read Jon Doust’s Blog here : http://blogs.telegraph.co.uk/jon__doust

I looked at the forecast for our area. It was for light rain yesterday (Tuesday) but light rain/snow for today and that seemed to be reasonably accurate as it was obviously getting colder by the hour (we tell how cold it is by the thickness of the icicles hanging from Shadow’s whiskers). True enough – rain fell yesterday and then it got heavier and then it turned into soft hailstones which fell for a few hours and covered the ground in what, to any eye would look like snow.  

Then the phone calls started. School was being evacuated, not because of the snow fall in town but because some pupils live in the mountains and those pupils needed to get home before the conditions got any worse.

Now, the logical mind would question at this point why the school doesn’t just let those ‘mountain’ pupils go home and continue to educate the others. I’m afraid that’s just too simple a solution for the French education system. Nope – the school is emptied, several hundred kids are thrown onto the streets and then mums, dads and various other adults have to leave work or disrupt what they’re doing just to go and pick up the kids. The buses which would normally transport them to and from school, lie idle in the depot miles away. It’s crazy. 

And so this morning, Kitty came in to the bedroom at 6.30am asking if she had to go to school. The dilemma was that we could take both her and Guy the 8 miles to school, only to be turned away at the gate. It doesn’t take much for French teachers to stop teaching and a sprinkling of snow comes high up on the list. Other reasons include the fact that it’s the 2nd Friday in the month, a Saint’s birthday, the sales are on in Cap 3000 (the mall) or they just can’t be bothered. C’est la vie!  

I got up and peered into the darkness. It looked like just another ‘normal’ wet morning, not that the weather has been foul recently. It was only on Sunday that J spent the best part of the afternoon sitting in the sun on the terrace but it does change quickly and indeed, the forecast is for ‘sunny weather’ from tomorrow onwards. We’ll see.

Anyway, up there in the darkness on the top of the mountain, I thought I could see ‘whiteness’ (see picture) and was just about to relay my advice that the kids should stay off school when Kitty wandered past me in that ‘zombie-like’ state children adopt before noon – and she went straight back to bed. It looked to me that a decision had already been taken!      

6 January 2009

6th Time and Still Enjoying It

There’s not many films I’ve watched twice but Ryan’s Daughter I can watch time and time again. I first saw it when it first came out in 1970, going to the cinema in Glasgow with my girlfriend at the time and I remember being spellbound by the scenery, the acting and in particular, by Sarah Miles.

Strangely enough, I was thinking about Ryan’s Daughter only the other day as I sorted out all our DVD’s and actually remember being disappointed that I didn’t have a copy of this epic film, made by that epic filmmaker, David Lean. But I’ve seen it now, six times in all, four of them in the cinema and I’m still in awe, particularly as I’ve researched some of the background to the film and have become aware of the all the problems and issues between the actors and the director. It’s a wonder the film was ever finished with Christopher Jones (he plays the British Army Major) and David Lean having frequent arguments and the production crew waiting around, reputedly for a year, for the weather to get to the stage where they could film the storm scenes.

The film is mainly set in southern Ireland and although some of the beach scenes were shot in South Africa, most of the film is set around the Dingle Peninsula in County Kerry. The scenery, in particular the rocky shoreline and the storms which lash the coastline, are amazing and would draw anyone to visit that part of Ireland and although you might think that it looks a fairly remote area on a map, there is quite a tourist infrastructure set up with tourist offices, hotels and the like. This can only be for the reasons that (a) Ryan;s Daughter was shot there, (b) it’s the most westerly part of the British Isles and (c) the beaches are magnificent, albeit a trifle windswept.

However, back to the film and my lusting after Sarah Miles. Well, I was only 19 at the time and I was on a roll having just seen The Graduate and an utterly desirable Anne Bancroft, but it was the fact that although I fancied Sarah Miles like mad, bizarrely, I fancied her even more after Rosy Ryan (Sarah Miles character) had her hair shaved and was tarred and feathered for allegedly informing on the IRA. Weird!

The years pass and we all move on although none as far as Ms Miles, who appeared regularly in the tabloid newspapers in the late 70’s and 80’s and acknowledged, supported and even encouraged the various stories which appeared. One of the strangest was that she regularly drank her own urine, but as Ghandi and Nero did it (apparently), who am I to decry the practice.

Affairs with Lord Olivier, Steven Spielberg, marriages to the same guy (Robert Bolt) twice and a dead lover in her hotel bedroom all kept Ms Miles regularly in the news. Those were the days.

        

5 January 2009

What Would Improve My Life

       

Well apart from winning the UK lottery (I don’t even win the £10 prizes anymore), or some Russian making an obscene offer for my house, the following (non financial) things would improve my life significantly (and remember, I’m being utterly selfish – this is for ME):

1.                  For my facial hair to stop growing. I hate shaving and it seems that I have to shave at the very last minute to go somewhere. Either that, or I’ve not shaved for a couple of days and I bump into somebody I know who really does think I’ve become the recluse I’m always threatening to be.

2.                  For the French to stop banging into my cars. It’s endemic. Everybody just bashes cars as if they were supermarket trolleys. I once saw a guy parking what was obviously a new £100,000+ Bentley in a supermarket car park. He was either new to France or mad.

3.                  For my acre of scrubland (or wood if you want to be posh) to be magically cleared one morning and for the hidden terraces to come alive and show the true contours of the land. When we bought the land some ten years ago, I reckoned it was going to be a 15 year job to clear it. Well – it still looks like a 15 year job!

4.                  For my neighbour (French and about 80 years old) to very generously offer me the mountains of cut wood which he has stored in his garden and which he never seems to use.

5.                  For France Telecom to actually provide the 8mb broadband link they promise in their contract. Dealing with FT is like punching a jelly, trying to grab an eel or in the case of trying to get somebody who actually wants to help you, like trying to find the proverbial needle in the haystack.

6.                  For my brother Robert to call me up one day and say that the idea of him coming to live out here isn’t so stupid after all. The fact that his ‘bedroom’ doesn’t have any windows and opens up into the garage is but a small problem which could be easily fixed.

7.                  For my team Rangers to win the League and the two Scottish cups and then win the Champions League the following year and for Celtic (our arch rivals) to be relegated – ha ha! And if you’re wondering why this would change my life, then the fact that my three sons are Celtic supporters should help you.

8.                  For my ‘bad back’ to stop complaining whenever I do something strenuous. For my ‘funny knee’ to stop aching when I ski and for my head to stop hurting when I drink too much.

9.                  For me to get some willpower going and start jogging (I hate jogging almost as much as I hate Celtic) so that I can get my six-pack back – ha ha -  double 24 case is more like it!

10.              And finally, for J to actually put things away after her. I wont go into details but ……. no I wont go into details.