City life in France is not much different to city life anywhere else: hooded youths with sad, sagging trousers, the odd beggar, dog pooh, car fumes and the like. Another thing they have in common with their foreign counterparts is 'Graffiti Shops'. These are spray-can emporia whose products, albeit sold entirely legally, are destined to deface buildings. Delightful, huh? The joke wears a little thin when you hear stories like I heard when I got home from work this evening. Mrs. Fingers, a friend, the Fingernails and the friendettes went out for a walk around 5pm. All of a sudden, all four children started wailing and crying; their eyes were streaming and they were coughing profusely. It turned out that this was the result of the fumes from one of these appalling spray cans. Thanks, Mr. Hooded Cretin; if our kids develop some kind of anomaly in later life we'll know who to thank.
And nobody here ever says a thing.
Wednesday, 7 November 2007
Monday, 5 November 2007
Park like a local
Went off to a local church this evening to train an English choir. They've got a Carol Concert coming up and have decided that I would be the best person to help them, based on the fact that a) their regular chorusmaster is abroad and b) when asked, I said 'yes'. It's a very laid-back affair with an awful lot of focus on the interval refreshments. Virtually everyone comes with a large bag or box chock full of cups, plates, cakes, mulled wine, coffee and tea. The music folder may or may not be found under all of this. They're enthusiastic and sing pretty well, so it's a pleasant evening out.
When we arrived, we did as most civilised people do and parked in the car park. This is, apparently, not what the priest does. Not for him the risk of leaving his car amongst the conveyances of the faithful: he opens the double front doors, folds in his wing mirrors, slips into first and cruises towards the Almighty. The congregation has to squeeze past his Renault to get in. OK, he doesn't park in the nave itself but most of the reception area does get transformed into a rather sad version of the Paris Car Show.
The lady who gave me a lift in told me that her daughter was 'learning how to drive at a French driving school'. Anyone who has ever tried to cross a road in this country would find that at least mildly contradictory. Yesterday, she nearly backed into a Mercedes 4x4; no doubt her instructor will work hard on improving her aim. I trust he'll inform her that it's illegal to change down into second for any corner less than than 90°, too.
The pavements of this ancient city are peppered with bollards to prevent 'drivers' parking on them. Very often, they are so narrow that only pedestrians in their fourth month of hunger strike can walk down them without toppling over into the road. Add the bollards and you're stymied. Bring a pushchair into the equation and you've no choice: you're in the street. Pretty soon you're being honked at for obstructing traffic by the self same people whose indiscipline and selfishness pushed you into their way in the first place. On the plus side, it's a very good way of learning new vocabulary and gestures.
The problem is not new in Old Europe: how to arrange an immobile architectural infrastructure to accomodate the senseless love of the motor car. People who insist on driving 400 yards to the corner café and then spend fifteen minutes trying to park will not, generally, be receptive to any campaign aimed at reducing car dependance. Politicians are loath to enforce anti-car legislation for fear of not being re-elected onto the gravy train that is French politics, so we're stuck with half-arsed measures such as 'Pedestrian Priority Streets' and the like. Lovely in theory, abysmal in practice; any right-thinking person is going to save his own skin rather than risk being in the right and spending a few months in traction.
There's often talk of the lunacy of the Italians and Spanish on the road but I'm convinved that the only safe French car is a parked one. Unless you're trying to take communion.
When we arrived, we did as most civilised people do and parked in the car park. This is, apparently, not what the priest does. Not for him the risk of leaving his car amongst the conveyances of the faithful: he opens the double front doors, folds in his wing mirrors, slips into first and cruises towards the Almighty. The congregation has to squeeze past his Renault to get in. OK, he doesn't park in the nave itself but most of the reception area does get transformed into a rather sad version of the Paris Car Show.
The lady who gave me a lift in told me that her daughter was 'learning how to drive at a French driving school'. Anyone who has ever tried to cross a road in this country would find that at least mildly contradictory. Yesterday, she nearly backed into a Mercedes 4x4; no doubt her instructor will work hard on improving her aim. I trust he'll inform her that it's illegal to change down into second for any corner less than than 90°, too.
The pavements of this ancient city are peppered with bollards to prevent 'drivers' parking on them. Very often, they are so narrow that only pedestrians in their fourth month of hunger strike can walk down them without toppling over into the road. Add the bollards and you're stymied. Bring a pushchair into the equation and you've no choice: you're in the street. Pretty soon you're being honked at for obstructing traffic by the self same people whose indiscipline and selfishness pushed you into their way in the first place. On the plus side, it's a very good way of learning new vocabulary and gestures.
The problem is not new in Old Europe: how to arrange an immobile architectural infrastructure to accomodate the senseless love of the motor car. People who insist on driving 400 yards to the corner café and then spend fifteen minutes trying to park will not, generally, be receptive to any campaign aimed at reducing car dependance. Politicians are loath to enforce anti-car legislation for fear of not being re-elected onto the gravy train that is French politics, so we're stuck with half-arsed measures such as 'Pedestrian Priority Streets' and the like. Lovely in theory, abysmal in practice; any right-thinking person is going to save his own skin rather than risk being in the right and spending a few months in traction.
There's often talk of the lunacy of the Italians and Spanish on the road but I'm convinved that the only safe French car is a parked one. Unless you're trying to take communion.
Friday, 2 November 2007
Holidays
Just found out tonight that the school holidays don't finish until next Wednesday. That seems awfully long, considering the Fingernails have only been back since the beginning of September. Take away the two strikes that Fingernail 1's teacher has already 'participated in' i.e. probably staying at home with breakfast in bed, watching some scrofulous re-run of an unfunny film from 1953, and the times she's been off sick (at least two weeks), it doesn't add up to much tuition time. Her little work book has virtually nothing in it so I really wonder if they've had any kind of activities these past two months at all. Don't get me wrong: Fingernail 1 is only five and I'd only just started infant school at her age, so I'm very much in favour of her discovering through playing and enjoying these precious years; she has her whole life to put her nose to the grindstone. But at the same time I'd like to see some evidence of her doing something, ANYTHING, which could expand her mind. She doesn't have to write joined-up yet, doesn't have to reproduce Caravaggios without going over the edges, but I'd like to see proof of some kind of nurturing input on the side of the staff. We've spoken to the headmistress about this woman, but, in true bureaucratic style, she is powerless to address any kind of disciplinarian issue with her. That's the job of the Academy, and they're unlikely to hoover off their cobwebs and act. My mother was a teacher in England for many years, and they didn't even have the right to strike in those days. I don't know whether it's any different, now, but at least the children were able to form a relationship with their teacher and not be held hostage to the puerile displays of solidarity, defending the indefensible, which so often passes for 'industrial action' in France. With more strikes against Sarkozy's planned reforms coming up in November I can see this creature band-wagonning any further excuse to not go to work while the parents of Class 4 run around trying to reorganise their lives and find even more ways to juggle having children and making sure they have the money to clothe and feed them. And no-one will say a word to the teacher. They can't. The right to strike is there in the Constitution of the Fifth Republic but it wouldn't surprise me if a lot of people here regarded it as a duty. My heart sank when I saw Fingernail 1 was going to be in her class this year. Sadly, my fears have already been borne out.
Thursday, 1 November 2007
And upwards...
Today at work just HAD to be a confirmation of the events of last night. And it was. Every ballsaching minute spent 'participating' in the goings-on made me even more determined to pursue this new path and move on. It won't be for a couple of years, but I'll need that time to prepare the shift, anyway. It will have been eight years in this particular discipline, and that will have been enough. Great school, thanks and bye-bye; fortune favours the brave, 'n' all that. Won't be the first time, probably won't be the last.
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