J's Birthday

And so it came to pass that upon the 26^th day of November, a certain lady whom I know became 54. And as I was sleeping at about 8.30am, having been up most of the night with hay fever, I was awoken by said lady who remonstrated, ‘you’ve forgotten my birthday, haven’t you’?

Rubbing my bloodshot eyes (from the hay fever) I worked out pretty quickly that had I been awake I would most certainly have offered her my congratulations, felicitations and whatever else it is that you offer to an old lady upon her birthday.

So the day, a day I have been dreading, a day I dread each year, has come to pass yet again. A day when the whole world needs to know that it’s J’s birthday!

The hints have been going on for quite a few weeks of course - as you would expect. ‘Oh don’t bother to get me much for my birthday darling, I know you’ve got all those French tax bills on your desk as well as your income tax demand from the UK’.

This translates as – ‘you’d better find an alternative source of funds dearest cause I’m going to expect a major celebration’.

I protested not only about all my tax demands but the fact that surely at 54, birthdays don’t mean that much any more? I mean, if my birthday went unnoticed, it would not bother me in the slightest, but then I’m a man!

‘I’ll take you for a nice dinner’, I foolishly said and before the final syllable had left my mouth I was getting e-mailed menus from every Michelin starred restaurant she could find within 50 miles.

‘A trifle expensive darling’, I said. ‘When I said a nice dinner, I meant something costing less than our monthly mortgage payment’.

That was it. Major sulk.

‘If you’re not taking me for dinner then, can I have a few people round for drinks’?

‘Of course darling, but just a few eh’.

Well, the Orange e-mail server failed with the number of invitations that flew out from her PC. Everybody, including some we’d never met before were invited which meant total evaporation of my Xmas champagne stock.

It would have been cheaper to have taken her to dinner in one of those Michelin restaurants!

A Thanksgiving Offering ?

Sunday morning. J and Kitty have gone off to church, Guy and his pal are still asleep downstairs after a night’s gaming on the X-Box and probably drinking my 12 percent strength beer and I’m just pottering around listening to the ‘Sunday Supplement’ on Sky, when I hear Coco our cat meowing. Nothing unusual in that in that she’s a very vocal cat but there was something different about her cries this time.

I looked over and there at the top of the stairs, presented by Coco and her mother, Bijou, was a nice warm, dead magpie and it was quite patently an offering. They did not tear it wing from wing like they usually do with the birds they catch, they just laid it on the floor and stood back, looks of feline pride on their little furry faces.

I praised the cats and then disposed of the bird in the usual manner (by throwing it into next door’s garden – see previous blog below) and then thought about how the cats managed to catch one of the cleverest birds around.

I’ve seen the magpies around here attack the cats and they’ve even tried to harass Shadow and distract him whilst one of them dives down and eats his food. As soon as they hear my windows open they’re off because they know that I shoot at them through these openings. They’re very, very clever birds but how, if they’re that clever are they caught by cats?

Now I’ve witnessed my cat in London sit motionless on top of the garden fence and simply reach out a paw and grab a passing, flying bird. Very impressive it was but magpies are a different breed altogether as my previous post relates. But I shed no tears for it or them – they might be clever but they’re also nasty pieces of work and the more of them the cats catch, the fewer gun pellets I’ll need to use!

http://tomsfrenchblog.blogspot.com/2008/06/well-last-night-was-something-of.html

La Prefecture…….Again

When you need to register a vehicle, apply for a work permit or get or change a driving licence in France, the Prefecture is where you go. It’s the pits.

If Sarkozy found a civil servant ‘in flagrante delicto’ with his rather tasty wife he woudn’t sack him. He wouldn’t even kill him. Nope – a fate worse than death itself is to be sent to a Prefecture somewhere, most probably Nice. It’s where French civil servants are sent to rot and die in the utter boredom of trying to deal with hordes of immigrants and ex-pats, none of whom have the correct paperwork, and who get increasingly upset at having to queue for hours to do something they could do online – if only the systems existed.

My last visit was a few months ago in May to re-register Guy’s scooter (http://tomsfrenchblog.blogspot.com/2009/05/la-centre-administratif-prefecture.html) and I had to go again last week to change the paperwork for my new scooter. I was quite lucky in May in that I only had to queue for a few hours before I was called but I’ve been reading recently of near riots at the Nice Prefecture as hundreds of people turn up to two hours before the doors open, only to find themselves shoved roughly aside as the non-queue respecting French rush in. The police are regularly called and apparently now ‘man’ the doors each morning as they open.

I feared the worst and arrived at 10.15am. It all seemed fairly quiet until I got to the ‘carte grise’ (vehicle registration document) section. A cursory check of my paperwork allowed me a number in the queue – 609. I rushed round to look at the digital readout to find that they were only calling number 467 – I was 142^nd in the queue.

I got my iPhone out and typed in the following equation:

(X * Y) ÷ Z ÷ 60

Where X is the number before me in the queue, Y is the 7 minutes it takes to deal with each person and Z is the number of windows open to deal with the public. Divide all this by 60 to get a result in hours and you – faint! It was going to be nearly 3.5 hours before I would be called!

My grand strategy however was to change my British driving licence at the same time, so having put my 609 ticket somewhere safe (you need to show it to prove you’ve been in the queue), I headed round to the Permis De Conduire section. I drew number 90 and worked out that there were 23 people ahead of me which doesn’t sound too bad until you work out that it takes about 10 minutes to issue or change a licence and there are only two windows. These are the documents I needed to produce:

1. Application Form

2. Passport

3. Photocopy of passport

4. French ID Card

5. Photocopy of same

6. 2 passport sized photographs

7. Original birth certificate

8. Photocopy of same

9. Official French translation of birth certificate

10. Photocopy of same

11. 2 Utility bills

12. Old driving licence

13. Photocopy of same

No wonder it took 10 minutes!

I headed back round to the Carte Grise section about an hour later to see what was happening. Only 6 people had been called! I listened to Talksport on my iPhone for about 45 minutes (thank god for miracles of modern science)and then returned to the licence section. They were at number 85 – well ahead of schedule. I was soon to find out why.

I was called about 30 minutes later by one of the two women officials, and like in May found that she had a ‘Jordanesque’ cleavage and was wearing the lowest cut top she could without being arrested for indecency. A quick bonjour, a quick look at my inch-thick wad of papers and she smiled. ‘You’ve come to the wrong Prefecture. You need to go to Grasse’.

Now, under normal circumstances I would have thrown my papers up in the air and screamed and shouted, but after 10 years in France I am phlegmatic about these situations. I simply said my thanks and headed back to the Carte Grise section to see if things had improved.

‘Section closed for the rest of the day due to systems malfunction’ !!!!!!

PS - I had a problem finding a picture for this post until I read an article on a French guy who, after working in the French Civil Service for many years, was found to have virtually no brain. It's true!

On Top Of The Côte D’Azur

J had been suffering with the cold and or flu and or bronchitis and or the plague all week. Two days running, I’d offered to take her into Vence for some oysters and champagne and she’d refused – she must’ve been feeling bad! Normally she’d have bitten my hand off with an offer like that but why would you do that to the hand which feeds you! Ouch!

Of course on Thursday she was somewhat hung over after her night next door with the girls, drinking and putting the world to rights by discussing babies, nappies, cold remedies and botox! I'd had no meaningful contribution to make to the discussion and that's why I'd left them to it but only after a bottle of Beaujolais and a few 'borrowed' ciggies.

And so when Friday arrived and she was a little better, I tested her resolve once more by saying I was taking the Alfa for a run after six weeks of inactivity (the Alfa – not me) – did she want to come along?

‘Where was I thinking of going’, she enquired. ‘Up the mountain to Gourdon for lunch in the Nid d’Aigle (the Eagle’s Nest)’, I said. Well she was out of her nightie (it was 11.45 am) and showered and dressed by 12.30 which was some going!

On the way up the mountain she enquired if I’d actually finished the work I’d been doing on the wheels of the car which was her way of asking if I’d put the wheels back on properly which, I suppose, was reasonable as it was J who had the 1000 ft drop on her side. It was 70 degrees (yes really), the top was down and I was flying round the hairpins. Coincidentally, Riviera Radio started playing Fleetwood Mac’s The Chain which made me go even faster. It was all idyllic. Top down, 70 degrees and Fleetwood Mac – what could be better? Britney Spears in the passenger seat I suppose?

Gourdon was rather quiet which made us wonder if The Eagle’s Nest was open but it was and we were ushered to a table at a window which looked down a 1500 foot sheer drop into the valley below and across the coast from Nice airport to the Esterel mountains in the west, a coastal distance of some 50 miles. It was stunning. And as if to prove just how high we were (760 metres according to my iPhone), a para-glider passed our window and headed off into the valley below.

The plat du jour (daily special) was Marcassin which neither J or I had heard of but it turned out to be baby wild boar which we should have guessed because on the menu it was marked as ‘fresh, supplied by local hunters’.

J and I both ordered it - baby Wild Boar stew with sautéd courgettes and pomme dauphinoise. It was deeeelicious and as it’s been a couple of years since I’ve had boar, it was great to get that meaty, earthy taste back on my palate.

A plate of boar and a bottle of Rosé later and J and I were wondering whether to have dessert or not. At 9 and 10 euros, it was exceptionally expensive compared to the price of the main course (10 euros). I ordered another glass of Rosé whilst J checked her elasticated waistband and as she was able to force her little finger down one loose bit at the front, that convinced her that desserts could be ordered. Mine arrived – apple tart with vanilla ice cream and it was probably the best ‘tarte au pomme’ I’ve had since I moved here. It was sublime.

J’s on the other hand was …… sensational. Five desserts on one plate – called Le Dessert Gourmande. A taste of all their desserts on one plate but of course no ice cream, so what was left of mine was snatched and she was as happy as a baby boar in a puddle of mud. Ha!

So, all in all, The Eagle’s Nest was terrific. Fantastic value, a view to die for (nobody else on the Côte D’Azur can have been dining higher) and a fabulous sunny day.

Eagle's Nest web site at the URL below:

http://www.nid-daigle.fr/ang/

Irish Indignation and French Kissing

How the reputation of an otherwise feted star can be ruined by a single, callous act. It was like switching on the TV and seeing Julie Andrews in a porn film or seeing a fly-on-the-wall documentary about the Pope and finding him swearing like a trooper, swigging down neat whisky and looking through a little black book to see which prostitute to summon to the Vatican that night! Worse - it was like seeing Vera Lynn slap a beggar who had the effrontery to ask her for some money so he could buy a hot drink.

I’m referring, of course, to Thierry Henry’s blatant handball in last week’s World Cup qualifying match, which helped a rather lackluster French team reach the finals in South Africa next year.

Now I’ m no great fan of Thierry Henry, the man. As a footballer he was magnificent (note the word ‘was’) and on occasions still is, but his breathtaking arrogance leaves me completely cold. The way he celebrates a goal by holding his arms out, waiting expectantly for the adoration of his teammates. The way he nods when scoring a goal as if to say, ‘there is no equal on this earth to my brilliance’. But of course he’s French and that’s probably the nub of it.

So, for those of you unaffected by, and unaware of the huge diplomatic row brewing between the two nations, a quick explanation: Ireland, against the odds, were winning by one goal to nil on France’s home turf last Wednesday night. This made the two match series all square and they were heading for penalties to decide the contest – probably a 50-50 chance that Ireland would win. Not bad odds for a team regarded as minnows when compared to the French.

And then the ‘hand of gaul’ struck. Thierry Henry stopped the ball from going out of play with his hand, guided it onto his right foot with his hand a second time and crossed, unusually with his foot this time it for his teammate to score the decisive goal.

Now, I quite accept that the first ‘handball’ might have been instinctive (i.e. not deliberate and premeditated) but the second was quite deliberate, and then the way Henry ran off after the ‘goal’ had been scored, as if it was a stroke of sheer brilliance of a footballing nature, was quite stomach-churning.

And this is where the row has broken out. Whilst the Irish team are philosophical and accept that there is a miniscule chance that the game will be replayed, the Irish government are apoplectic and are ready to break off diplomatic relations with the French.

The Irish people are, of course, terribly upset and who can blame them. The economy is sinking like a stone in line with their property prices and it’s been raining constantly since the turn of the century. The Irish team making the World Cup Finals would have given the whole nation a fillip, but, alas, unless the Gods (otherwise known as Fifa) intervene, nothing will be done and the French will turn up in the sun next year instead of the deserving Irish.

The last word from an Irishman on the subject (and you need to practice your Irish accent here): Oim bloody disgusted, oim giving up French bread and French Fries. And oim, oim giving up French wine. In fact I’m so bloody disgusted oim even giving up French kissing!