Showing posts with label school. Show all posts
Showing posts with label school. Show all posts

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Mon enfant trilangue......yeah really!

As it's getting towards the end of the school year, the children are starting to empty out files and get rid of a year's worth of 'controles' (school tests). I think schoolchildren in France must be among the most tested in Europe!

I came across a Spanish controle belonging to DS and, while I don't support the lack of effort he put into it, well, you have to laugh! I know people who mistakenly believe that their children will leave school here trilingual, having mastered English (if they didn't already speak it), French (if they didn't already speak it) and a third modern language, in our case, Spanish.

Here's an excerpt from DS's test and I'll leave you to make up your mind.

Translate the following:

le voisin/la voisine (neighbour) el voisinos, la voisina

le fromage (cheese) el fromagos

un sandwich (no translation needed!) uno sandwichos

un oignon (onion) unos oignonos

l'huile (oil) el huilos


So, what do you think? Trilingual or not?

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

It's a regular form-filling frenzy...

Ooh, owww!  Careful now.  I've just finished the annual form-filling-in-fest that is the 'reinscription scolaire'. I have a severe case of repetitive documentation injury.  My eyes are crossed and my mind is boggled.

Being France you don't just have to enrol your child in school once, you have to do it every year. Well how else can you keep all these 'fonctionnaires' (government employees) in a job, with early retirement and a big fat pension. Sound familiar? 

It used to be the case that the forms arrived with all the information already filled in and it was just a case of making any corrections but clearly, with unemployment soaring in rural France they think we have more time on our hands. Either that or the revolving door that is relationships in this part of the world means that the forms serve as a reminder to the children who their latest daddy/mummy  is and which of their classmates they will share them with this year.

The idea of sharing information doesn't seem to exist here so the same information has to be written on the form for La Vie Scolaire, the school administration, the school nurse, the janitor, the class guinea pig... (what do you mean there isn't one?)

So, on top of everything else I've had to do today I've .....

a) written my children's names 14 times

b) written my name 12 times

c)  written my husband's name 8 times (well of course he's much less important!)

d)  written my address 10 times

e)  written my phone number 10 times

f)   written my mobile number 8 times

g)  written my emergency contacts details 8 times

h)  written the children's bus route 4 times

i)   written my doctor's name and address a mere 4 times

j)   signed my name 10 times

In addition, I have 12 pages of duplicated information about the school canteen, the new 'free' bus service which is actually costing me more than the free one the children already have and the latest bonkers idea for the beginning of next term.  They start back on Wednesday for a half day, have Thursday off so the new intake can have the school to themselves (normally the new intake starts the day before the rest of the school) and back again on Friday.  A good half acre of Amazonian rainforest must have been felled.  They know I have two children in the school, why not just one set of information?   Imagine if I was a good French woman and had supplied the state with a 'famille nombreuse' (4 plus children)?

So, off for a hot bath with a pack of frozen peas on my right arm.

Tomorrow, I have the school transport forms to deal with.......


Monday, June 16, 2008

Debunking the Myth

Today I had a social event! It was a Ladies Lunch at a splendid little place run by a jolly Belgian (or could be Dutch) couple who converted an old barn into a 'venue' where they run a series of themed lunches throughout the year. It's the only place you'll find Indonesian food in my neck of the woods.

The company was lovely, all bright, funny ladies who's company I enjoyed. We got onto the subject of the myriad books about 'living the Dream in France' and how totally divorced from reality most of them seem to be.

Much as I hate them I seem strangely drawn to them, rather like a lemming to a clifftop, and read them from cover to cover with much pooh poohing and rubbishing. They represent, to my mind, a totally false view of life in France for the average person and should be banned as they just lead to impressionable folk upping sticks and leaving their comfort zone for a rural French idyll that, frankly, doesn't exist except in the minds of a few deluded authors.

After all, if life in Provence was so wonderful, why did Peter Mayle only write about the first year? Maybe because after your talked about your builders, local cuisine and goat racing, there's not much else to write about!

John Burton Race wrote very prosaically about life in the Southwest but only stayed a year and Rosemary Baxter, who wrote the lovely 'Life in a Postcard' which heavily influenced me (OK, I admit it!) with her stories of renovating an old chapel in the Pyrenees and how much she loved the local village school, left after a few years when she discovered that a French education is very likely a blight on any child's life in the global world. Strangely, if you read her website, it appears that she is still happily residing in France but if you read the French version, there's a link to an article which tells of her eventual dissatisfaction and her decision to move back to the UK.

In almost all of them, the sun never ceased to shine, the shiny, happy locals are constantly on your doorstep with offerings of chutneys and jams, homemade pate and elderflower wine and life is just rosy.

The only one that came anywhere near the truth was by Susie Kelly who discovered that her neighbour in rural Charente was actually an international drug smuggler. Now that's more like it!!

I recently read a monthly newsletter by a reasonably local author who has just written a book. In it she talks about 'Glorious June' and the local town bustling people enjoying aperitifs in pavement cafes and bistros and I'm forced to ask if we are truly living in the same place.

So here's a bit of a reality check.

June has been far from glorious and has rained nearly every day, if not every day. Anyone eating outside would need at least thermal underwear if not a wet suit and name me one other time when you'd gladly sit and eat your lunch six feet from the exhaust fumes of a car! Anywhere but a pavement cafe in France and you'd be wearing breathing apparatus.

Markets are full to bursting of ripe, local fruit and vegetables but many are not so local unless Morocco and Spain are now part of France and all except the very few organic products (organic farming counts for less than 6% of all French fruit and vegetable) are liberally laced with pesticide residue. The heavy and consistent rains this year have decimated the plum crops and, despite this being 'cherry time' a blight has killed off most of the fruit this year. Deaths among French farmers from cancer are three times higher than the average population. This is believed to be due to the cocktail of pesticides, herbicides and other 'cides' that are sprayed on the fields. In my area, 80% of the food crops are believed to be contaminated by the vast amount of GM crops planted here.

When you ask people why they moved to France you often get the same reasons.

Easier pace of life - well I have to get up at 6.30am to get DS up to the village to get the school bus, then back home to get DD ready, then drive her to school. Even the simplest job is made more difficult by the fact that the shops shut for hours at lunchtime. If I had a euro for every time I had to leave before I finished all the jobs I had to do I'd be living in a chateau! It may be easier for those who are retired, who's life isn't dictated by catching the school bus and the school timetable, but for me, well I find it just as hard, if not harder.

No crime - WHAT? Crime in France is no different to the UK. When I read our regional paper there is usually a couple of murders, plenty of anti-social behaviour, burglary aplenty. Domestic violence in France is appalling as is child murder. My theory is that most English people that move to France speak very little French and so can't read the local papers or understand the radio so they live in blissful ignorance of the realities of crime here.

Good schools, firm discipline - wrong again. The French school system is deeply lost in the 1950s with a curriculum which is totally unsuited to life in the global world of the 2000s. IT isn't even a core subject and is not even taught in many schools. DS's college has numerous computers which have been broken for the past 2 years and he hasn't had a single computing lesson since he arrived in France. DS refers to it as 'death by worksheet' as most of the time he is expected to fill in countless worksheets and as for having an opinion on anything, that's a no-no. If teachers are sick the classes are cancelled and they strike at the drop of a hat.The education system seems designed to produce a nation of followers to do the bidding of the ruling elite who go to the Grand Ecoles in preparation for taking over the country. The government even pours in double the amount of euros to these elitist schools that it provides to the rest of the state education system.

France is also seeing a dumbing down of exams to make pass rates higher and this year many students haven't even finished the syllabus because they've spent half the year on strike. Never mind though, special dispensation will be given to all those who manned the barricades and blockaded their schools. Will the same dispensation be offered to those law abiding students who were prevented from attending classes by their more radical classmates I wonder?

Striking is a national sport, as is driving badly and fiddling your taxes according to the French press.

As for behaviour, in 2006, the last year for when figures are available, there were over 80,000 serious incidents in French schools. These include incidences of bullying, physical violence both to teachers and other pupils and theft as well as, worryingly, unauthorised people in the school grounds.

But children have so much more freedom... Would you let your child wander around the empty countryside in the UK? Why would you do it in France then? Children are abducted on an almost weekly basis here and children are nearly twice as likely to be murdered in France than in the UK.

And yes, French teenagers binge drink too. In fact, the problem is now so bad that the government is bringing in measures to help deal with it.

French country life is very different from English country life. French villages don't just appear to be dead, they really are! With the exception of a couple of months in the summer, you might never even see your neighbour. Most have no shops or cafes, no French version of the WI, in fact, absolutely nothing goes on. You also have to accept that you are living in a cultural desert where an old man playing an accordion is considered entertainment! And soft drug usage is as common as smoking a Gaulois.

Public transport is non-existent which does of course help to keep the teenage binge drinkers off the streets as they can't get to the towns so they do it in the privacy of their own homes. Local cuisine is generally duck, duck and more duck, beef is more suited to resoling your shoes, pizza is as exotic as it gets and French chic doesn't exist outside Paris. I still fly back to the UK to get my hair cut as I live in fear of ending up henna red or aubergine, or like the woman in our local supermarket, with leopard-spotted hair!

The local electricity supply is likely to be pretty unreliable and many people struggle to run a tumble dryer and boil a kettle at the same time. I even met someone who couldn't use her electric sewing machine and turn on a light at the same time. And this from a country that exports 60% of it's electricity production. Perhaps they could cut it to 55% so I could use my hairdryer and turn the iron on at the same time!

The ADSL connection is on and off like a bride's nightie (a quote I've plagiarised from one of my lunchmates today) and that's assuming you get it in the first place.

And the French, are they really so shiny and happy? Probably not. Unemployment is 10% countrywide, nearer 20% in the country and up to 60% for the under 25s in the banlieus of the large towns and cities. The French are the European leaders in the consumption of Prozac and have the either the highest or one of the highest incidences of suicide across all age groups in the world!

Alcoholism among the 'expats' because of course that's what we are, not economic migrants like the Eastern Europeans who go to the UK, is very high. Is it really the cheap wine or is it, more likely, the realisation that the 'French Dream' doesn't really exist?

On the plus side though, I live in stunningly beautiful area which takes my breath away on the odd days recently I can see it through the rain. The heathcare system is very good, although time will tell how long that will last, the croissants are delicious and my children are bilingual, which must surely be some benefit in the future.

So, if you are considering a move to France just remember that the grass may be greener but that's probably because it's liberally laced with pesticides and genetically modified!

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Oh B***er it's raining again!

"Oh b***er, it's raining again".

Thus started my day in the Sunny Southwest of France. Still Southwest but definitely not sunny.

"Don't swear, Mum" shout DS and DD in unison from their place under the stairs where I have decided to keep them until puberty passes. It's for the best, you know! When I had my two little darlings rather closer together than planned (or not, as was the case) I thought that at least I'd get the nappy stage out of the way quickly. Of course I completely forgot that they would, later in life, hit puberty at the same time.

DD seems to have been suffering from PMT for the past year - I dread her getting her little hands on a firearm - and DS has his own personal little black cloud that follows him everywhere.

It was one of those 'organised chaos' days which are becoming more and more a feature of my life these days and which isn't helped by, well, living in France.

"Quick, we've overslept, get dressed" I shout to DS.

"What's for breakfast?"

"Cereal"

"There's no milk"

"B***er" (again). "Toast"

"There's no bread"

B***er and thrice b***er. Now I remember what I forgot to do yesterday. Go shopping.

"We'll get a croissant from the shop".

We jump in the car and charge down the hill, safe in the knowledge that Ma Chere Voisine is in Burgundy so it's safe to travel at more than snail's pace for fear of meeting her charging up the hill à toute vitesse. She's always running as late as me but about 10 minutes before, leading to many near misses, accompanied by smiles and waving, as we screech past each other on our single track lane.

We arrive at the village. B***er yet again, we've missed the bus. This is not an unfamiliar scenario as I am, by nature, pathologically late. I dash into the shop. B***er, the boulanger hasn't arrived yet.

I grab a packet of chocolate biscuits and throw a few Euros at Gilles, the owner, who mimics driving a racing car at me. He's a regular witness to what is now affectionately known as the St Amans Dash - A hare-raising drive to the next village to try and catch the bus, with no regard for the safety of myself, DS or small animals. There used to be one stop before the next village but the family moved thus depriving me of a few more precious seconds in which to catch the bus. Selfish, selfish people.

I spy the bus in the distance, looks like we're in luck. I screech to a halt, offload DS who's still complaining that chocolate biscuits do not in any way form part of a balanced diet, and nearly run the poor boy over in my haste to get back to take DD to school.

I see the white van of the boulanger outside the shop. I grab a croissant for DD as we pass, not forgetting to give M. le Boulanger my best 'you're supposed to be here at 7.30am' look.

DD duly fed and watered, we set off for her school. We pull up outside and it looks suspiciously quiet. No cars, no teacher, no children. DD reaches for her school diary. "MUUuuuuummMMM", she cries, "It's a vaqué, there's no school today". B***er, b***er, b***er!

France has this bizarre system where some children go to school for 4 days a week, others do an additional Wednesday morning. To even it up, the ones that do the extra Wednesday morning, don't have school one Wednesday a month. Are you with me? Do you see why my life has the capacity to be so complicated? Why, oh why, can't they all go to school at the same time?

"OK, well I have to go shopping so you'll have to come with me". Shopping with DD is always an expensive experience and one I try to avoid at all costs. We drive the half hour to the nearest metropolis and pull up in the car park. I grab my bags and run... straight into the automatic doors, which fail to open up and let me in. Bemused onlookers stare. I notice the shop opening hours. It doesn't open for another half hour. Well what are they all doing here then? The fug of cigarette smoke should be a clue. It's the staff having a last fag before work.

For heaven's sake. What sort of country is this that the supermarkets don't open till 9.30am? No wonder it's nearly bankrupt. How come 'entrepreneur' is a French word but they don't have an iota of entrepreneurial spirit? There are two cafes in the complex. Think of all the money they could make if they opened up before people went to work, instead of an hour after!

I don't have half and hour to wait so we head across town to a different one. Now, this supermarket recently put together a panel of English/Dutch residents to advise them on how to improve the supermarket. I don't know if that's why this one opens an hour before the other one.

We buy our shopping then pop into Lidl for some gourmet peppers and a few other bits that I need. Bizarrely Lidl is the only place where I can find pumpkin seeds around here.

I pick up the regional newspaper to read about a young boy stabbed to death by his father. As the checkout lady goes to scan it, she stops to read the headline. Much ooh, laa, laa-ing (yes they do say it but here it's more oh, lor, lor with a rounded mouth like you are blowing out a candle). Then the lady behind me in the queue joins in. She hadn't heard the story so she wants the details. The checkout lady duly obliges and flicks through the (or should I say MY) paper to find the story. Meanwhile, I stand there politely, surreptitiously checking my watch as I have to pick DS up from school at 11.30am. (8.30am-11.30am! Hardly worth getting up!). By now a few more people have crowded round to read, discuss and otherwise comment on the story along with a few choice suggestions about what to do with the father.

I stand there.... politely.... the smile on my face becoming a little bit more 'fixed'.

Eventually, the discussion draws to a close, my now well-thumbed newspaper is scanned and handed to me and I have 10 minutes to get across town and pick up DS.

If there's one thing that I've learnt about life in France, it's the art of being patient!

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

School... what school?

Now don't get me wrong, I love my children dearly.... but.... isn't the point of having school age children that they actually go to school? In the last two weeks, DS has had three days off for public holidays, one day off (well, a morning at least) due to teachers being unavailable to teach and one day due to a teacher's strike - about the fifth one this year.

In France striking, along with fraud if the newspapers are to be believed, is akin to a national sport and sometimes it seems barely a week goes by without someone blowing a whistle and shouting 'everybody out'! When I saw all the fuss about the teachers in the UK going on strike with all the accompanying shock and horrorI thought wistfully, one strike in 20 odd years.. if only.

My favourite strike had to be the workers at the Paris Opera who, for some bizarre reason, had managed to slip into the 21st Century with a contract written by Louis the Somethingorother which gave them the opportunity to retire at 40 on 90% of their salary. I guess in Louis's day 40 was pretty damned old but now, for heaven's sake!

Back to schools. My DS's school has this lovely system whereby the teachers don't have to confirm whether or not they are strking until 8.45am on the day of the strike. Fine, but school starts at 8.30. So what do you do? Get them up with the lark and stick them on the school bus only to get the call at 8.46am to say that all their teachers are striking and could I come and pick them up please. This involves a round trip of 45kms in the gas guzzling Grand Voyager - I told you it was rural round here. Or do I keep them at home with all the implications that has on my busy social life (as if) not to mention my sanity. This parenthood business isn't easy.