Wednesday, 9 March 2011

Back to urban France.

I realise I've strayed a bit off the straight and narrow these last few posts. After all, the sub-heading of this blog contains the words Life in urban France and references to Wagner and Kate Middleton's culinary skills don't really fit that premise. The thing is, incontinent gypsies aside, I'm just not that angry any more, a bit like whatsername's husband in Nick Hornby's How To Be Good, who graduates from his journalistic identity of 'Angriest Man In Holloway' to being a docile, smiling, tolerant, loving father of two after reformed drug addict-turned-healer DJ Goodnews resolves his back problems. I'm not there yet, particularly as said character was a fervent anti-smoker, but the small stuff doesn't bother me any more. It's not age; I'm scarcely any older than when I started ranting about noisy neighbours, ubiquitous dog shit and gratutious vandalism, but I think there must come a time when one remembers that King Canute had somewhat limited success.

In any case, there's a limit to how angry one can stay before it becomes a health risk. I'm tempted to write only about things I find wonderful, but this blog might just lose its edginess. Nonetheless, I'll take this opportunity to restate how pleasant Toulouse is to live in, even if there are plenty of things and people - not least any hypocritical bloody socialist who crosses my path - I'd gladly put up against a wall and shoot.

I recently started another blog documenting my professional life before meeting Mrs. Fingers, a sort of BC/AD undertaking, I suppose, whose sole aim was to remind me of a not uninteresting period in my life, many details of which I still happily recount to the Fingernails, particularly concerning all the travelling I was fortunate enough to do. Having re-read the first few posts, I see it's in danger of becoming a Rhineland Shagfest, at least until 1989, when it became a Hamburg Shagfest. This isn't the content I relate to my children, but I realise that what really marked my existence was the interaction (in all senses) with other people. Work was work; enjoyable, stimulating and varied, but ultimately of interest only to myself. I could go on for ages about the pitfalls of conducting Cats with only monitor contact to the cast, how the prototype synthesizers kept breaking down in the middle of performances, and how one percussionist literally went insane during one show, but I'll probably just write about the time I banged an attractive female colleague on the stage at midnight one night, just next to where Old Deutoronomy always sat. Life is full of facts, experiences and impressions, but in the end, we only remember the bits where we weren't wearing anything.

Oh, sorry. More on urban France next time.

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