And now the end is near........

Well this is it folks, my last hurrah as Mme VLiF. The 24th August is fast approaching and it's time to draw my French blog to a close.

After almost 5 years here it's been a great adventure which I don't regret for a moment but it's time to move on. So, here are a few thoughts and ponderings about our time in France

What do I love?

Our valley

The views from the village

The weather in summer - not this summer. Too bloody hot!

My friends I've made here who I'll miss like mad but who hopefully are already planning their next trip to Wiltshire

Croissants from the lady in the village market on Sundays - but then they probably account for my expanding waistline

The fields when the wheat turns gold

The vast swathes of rape in Spring - apart from the coughing and sneezing it brings!

Sitting on our balcony watching the Milky Way and the shooting stars

What do I hate?

The nastiness that exists on some France forums

The weather for the rest of the year,

French customer services. Actually, that's something of an oxymoron, French and Customer Services!

French TV -- I really tried my best with it but it's pretty awful

The word 'integration'

People who say 'it's like the UK in the 50s' - what with malnutrition, polio, inequality of the sexes, backstreet abortions and hidden domestic violence? It's like France in the 2000s!

The word 'expats', we're not expats, we're immigrants. In fact, most of us are economic migrants really having moved to France so we could buy a bigger house. We are the Poles of France, except most don't actually have to work!

What drives me mad?

That you can't find things in the shops that have been available in the modern world for years - and I don't mean Marmite and Baked Beans, I mean, like ordinary things.

Paying for something in a shop and despite them having a drawer full of change they always want the odd centimes, even if there's 97 of them!

The lack of joined up thinking that seems so prevalent here

So not that much really!

What makes me smile?

The gallic shrug as the answer to everything.

The fact that Barko Sarko seems to be the world's biggest Francophobe, and he made Prez

Monsieur L's dancing

My lovely neighbour for whom I really hope life takes a turn for the better

What has been most suprising?

That despite everything you read it really is the same merde just different shaped bread. Maybe for the retired it's different but for me it just isn't. I'm quite convinced, as I have been for some time, that the authors of these 'Living the Dream' books are all taking mind-altering substances.

How few bilingual British people are actually employed in France.

How many people are prepared to live in absolute penury and accept things they absolutely wouldn't accept in their home countries just to live in a bigger house in France. I mean, it's great but .......

What has been most disappointing?

The education system. Dull, rigid, outdated. It's intended to produce drones who will work uncomplainingly for the ruling elite. So much for Egalité. One of the main reasons we are leaving is because our children, are so unhappy in the school system here. They can't wait to go back to 'proper' school in the UK. Let's hope it's not a disappointment.

Being ripped off by supposed friends. It can happen anywhere but it happened here.

The realisation that French couture doesn't really exist outside Paris. I can happily spend a whole day shopping and find absolutely nothing that I like. Shoes are the worst, hence my attachment to my Crocs

Hairdressers - I've lived in fear of coming out with aubergine or orange hair, or even both

The lack of opportunity for our bilingual British children. The French still seem to prefer to employ a French person with limited English than an English person with fluent French.

Best of times?

Christmas with some of our closest friends at the Chateau de L'hoste, Marchés Gourmands, time spent with friends, barbeque chez OnlyMe and Karlos Fandango, trying and largely failing to win the Quiz night (but we won this week, Allez les filles!!), the childrens' music concerts at Beauville Arts, listening proudly under the shade of the lime trees in Jon and Claire's garden, the High Security Music camp shows and singing my heart out with OnlyMe and of course, the Last Hurrah - our leaving party last weekend, of which I haven't had time to blog, sadly.

Worst of times?

Chopping wood in the winter, in fact anything to do with the winter!

Seeing good friends go through bad times and not being able to do anything to help.

Losing my beloved Mad Baz and Teabag and (whisper) accidentally running over DD's cat on the way to school one day. There.... I've said it. My name is Mme VLif and I've killed a family pet.

Telling the CH that I don't want to live here anymore because he loves it but he must love me more as he's agreed to move back. Aaaah!

Life in France vs Life in the UK?

UK for me I'm afraid. I try really hard to be a good 'expat' but I find after 4-5 years I realise just what a great place, despite everything, the UK really is and what opportunities exist for my children. France is, undoubtedly a great place to retire to but I'm not sure it's the place for families. All the reasearch I've done shows that most children brought up in France return to the UK. DD and DS are keen and very happy to return to the UK. There's lots I could add that has contributed to our decision to leave France but much of it is personal and not for sharing. All I would say is before passing judgement on someone's decision you need to walk in their shoes. I'm sure those of you desperate to leave the UK or whereever you live will think I'm bonkers but don't forget I was you 5 years ago. Sometimes it takes time away to make you realise what you had and also what you want.

Well, that's all folks, as they say. Thank you so much to everyone who has read and enjoyed my blog, to those who have commented and especially to all those clever people who's blogs I enjoy. I shall remain forever indebted to my Mum and Dad for encouraging me to start 'What French Dream'. It will serve as a permanent reminder of our French Adventure, assuming the Interweb doesn't get sucked into a black hole! Au revoir........

Easter Chicks..... (not for those who are sensitive about religion)

Once again our two cockerels have stepped up to the plate and performed their cockerelly duty so we have three new chicks. One black and two yellow ones that look like Easter chicks.

We decided to give them names that are synonymous with Easter so I give you......

Jesus

Mary and Joseph!

In which my equilibrium was unbalanced by the sight of so many men in Speedos.....

Eeeuwwww! The French and their speedos!

Today we went to a fabulous waterpark up in Dordogneshire. It was a last jolly for les enfants before we head back to the UK in just over a week
.

Now, in France they have these funny hygiene laws in swimming pools. Here you can use the toilet and not wash your hands, then go and handle the fresh fruit and veg, you can go to a Marché Gourmand where they will use the same utensils and chopping boards (wooden of course) to handle raw and cooked food, but you can't wear surf shorts in swimming pools. You have to wear speedos.

Now, it's apparently for hygiene reasons, though every time I've asked the pools to clarify this, they can only spout the pre-printed script, but then that's very French.

Now, wearing speedos is fine if you look like this...

Trouble is, most of them look more like this......

Now, in actual fact, as this was a waterpark rather than a swimming pool, the speedo rule wasn't actually being enforced but hey, like Romeo and Juliet, you can't separate a French man from his speedos so they were there in abundance.

Now, it's not easy to eat a baguette when confronted with bulging men's genitals stuffed into lycra and after the first hour I felt that my equilibrium had been well and truly upset. Now, with some men, the promise of what lies beneath might be quite nice but with the majority, what lies beneath is definitely not for my eyes - or anyone else's.


To be honest, I think men's genitals were one of God's little jokes. When left with three small pieces of whatever it is that man is made from, he thought to himself 'now what can I do with these that would be really silly? I know......'

But of course he hadn't banked on a Scotsman emigrating to Australia and thinking, now what can I make out of this little bit of nylon, or on French men embracing the end result with such fervour.

You could tell the French men in speedos. They were the ones who strode around, puffing out their chests saying 'I'm French and proud of my baguette' while the British men, forced into such revealing swimwear, crept around looking and feeling slightly foolish, generally with hands cupped protectively, or maybe just to shield their manhood from prying eyes.


The trouble is, regardless of how unattractive the man, when confronted with 'Man in Speedos' ones eyes seem naturally drawn downwards only to arrive 'youknowhwere', at which point you are suddenly overcome with nausea and horror because to be honest, you don't really want to be reminded that these men.... well... you know what I mean don't you ladies?


Recently, a Muslim lady was banned from wearing a burkhini in a public swimming pool under the same hygiene rules. Personally, I'd like to see all the fat men in speedos forced to wear one in public so I can enjoy my packed lunch in peace.


What do you think?

A lovely blog award

How ungrateful am I? Hadriana over at Hadriana's Treasures gave me this award last month and I clean forgot about it.

So I would now, in the final weeks of my blog, like to do as she did and pass it on to some of those who have commented on my blog. These will be my final awards so enjoy them!

So, here goes......

Not Waving but Drowning, French Fancy, A Fly in the Web, Completely Alienne, Shakespeare's Housekeeper, @eloh, Expateek, Random Ramblings and Recipes, Working Mum, Le Laquet, DnD, Galli, Just Me Really, Us in France

Take the award and pass it on......

What is it with men.....?

We're now in the final throes of our French adventure and with only three weeks left here we have a mountain of things to do for the lovely tenants who are taking over our house.

Rooms to repaint, airing cupboards to make, kitchen worktops to replace and...... oh God, I can't even bear to think about it..... the cellar to sort out. That in itself will take several days, as we have to sift through our impressive collection of 'hors-service' printers, children's schoolwork dating back to the days when we could legally send them down mines, empty boxes, christmas decorations, halloween decorations, duvets, dead mice and other assorted miscellania - or rubbish some less enlightened folk might say.

Every day I'm up at 7.30am, packing boxes, sorting out stuff for charity or dechetterie, or persuading DD that she really doesn't need to take all of her 180 books, of which she claims to be reading 'every single one'!

On top of that we have holiday guests until the day before we leave so pools still need to be cleaned, laundry to be done, guests to be looked after, hells teeth.. .I'm wearing myself out just typing it!

Around 9.30am I kick the CH out of bed (note that I've already been up an at it for 2 hours) whereup he makes a pot of coffee then spends the rest of the day doing the flaming garden!

Now, you have to bear in mind that we've had no significant rainfall since April and the garden already looks like the aftermath of some mad dictator's 'scorched earth' policy or even the Somme without the trenches. There's barely a thing alive. The grass is a fetching shade of yellow, the trees have a certain autumnal hue about them and the garden is ankle deep in dead leaves, dropped walnuts and windfall plums.

What little colour there was has either been dug up by Prudence the golden non-retriever, in her constant search for a cool place to lie, or eaten by the chickens, who are testing my patience to the maximum at the moment. On the promise of rain last night I put all my window pots of geraniums on the lawn to soak up the (as it turned out) non-existent precipitation. By this morning I had an attractive array of stalks. I can also boast dahlia stalks, petunia stalks and verbena stalks if you're interested.

So I ask you, what's the point? It will all grow back in the end.

I know the CH doesn't want to leave France, but he seems to be in total denial and I foresee a mad, crazy panic in three weeks time.......

Another Fête Accompli

Saturday night was the long-awaited Village Fête to celebrate Bastille Day, you know, the day that the Parisian hordes stormed the Bastille and freed the remaining 7 prisoners described as 'four forgers', 'two lunatics' and a 'deviant aristocrat', which sounds pretty much like the makeup of just about any French village!

On a point of historical accuracy it should be mentioned that the prisoners were not the reason for the storming. The 'vainqueurs of the Bastille' were actually after all the gunpowder there, having previously stormed the Hotel des Invalides and stolen 30,000 muskets but neglected to notice that they had neither shot nor gunpowder. A nice fashion accessory no doubt but not much use for armed rebellion.

The resulting 'Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen' is now dutifully celebrated on or around the 14th July when the French get together and storm the beer tents followed by a night of dancing the night away in ladies-only couples. French men, it seems, generally stay rooted to their seats unless there is an accordion present - and thanks be to God/Allah/Yahweh there wasn't one.

It has a good reputation as village Fêtes go, largely because the food is generally edible, which is more than can be said for some of the other ones where the mass production of properly cooked, warm food, is still a distant dream. Apparently 22 Maires would be present (what do you call a group of Maires, I wonder? Any suggestions? A legislation of Maires? A bluster of Maires? ), a record for a local village Fête. I have to be honest and say that this whole French 'Maire' thing completely passes me by so I couldn't get that excited about the prospect of them all.

The CH, for his sins, was commandeered for kitchen duty - note they didn't commandeer me. Must have been forewarned - and, despite his pleas to the contrary they insisted on serving rice. Rice for 500 people. 35 kilos of rice that all needed to be cooked on the night.

The menu was good. Melon and Parma Ham for starters, followed by pate and salad, then Patagonian Beef and Pork cooked traditionally by a local guy who hails from South - we are a truly international community here. It was cooked on these giant tripod things encircled by wood fire - very Bear Grylls. This was accompanied by ratatouille nicoise and 'the rice'. The cheese course followed and then a surfeit of very sweet, very sticky chocolate and coffee eclairs. Ice creams next year please!

First up for the entertainment was the local dance school, which seemed to only consist of two people, who strutted their latin stuff in a variety of glittery gowns - her that is. I must admit I find something slightly distasteful about 12/13 year olds dressed as adults and doing provocative dance moves but that could just be my conservative Tunbridge Wells upbringing.

The band was a Franco/British one with a keyboard player who seemed to be constantly one song behind the rest of the band but that was fine because there was one lady who danced the entire evening to whatever song that he was playing. I've never seen anyone so consistently miss the beat.

It's a funny thing, dancing. I could have spent hours (in fact I probably did) watching the different styles but my favourites were definitely 'out of time girl', a couple who spent hours trotting backwards and forwards with the odd dosey-do, and a drunk who's style was a bit 'epileptic on hot coals' but fortunately for the rest of us, he only kept it up for about 5 minutes before the call of the bar became too strong. People here are big into line dancing and now a bit of samba and they are instantly recognisable because the generally dance in all-girl couples. French men often seem to need the added encouragement of the accordion to get theselves moving.

The obligatory 'feu d'artifice' were duly set off. 1200 rockets the publicity proudly proclaimed. Personally, I'm sure I only counted 1148 but it was a great show anyway only slightly marred by the behaviour of some of the local 'yoof' who seemed intent on provoking the majority British crowd. Fortunately most had partaken of too much of the free vino collapso to notice.

Actually that probably was the only downside. The wine. Or at least I think it was wine but it could just as easily have been the juice from several hundred jars of pickled beetroot. It could with great ease have stripped the enamel off your teeth and the lining from your stomach. The other option was to buy bottles at 10 euros a pop - a bit steep in the land of decent wine for 3 euros a bottle, even with a markup. Next year everyone will be bringing their own.

So, le quatorze juillet was duly fêted for another year albeit on the onze juillet, but then, who's counting.

In which I Vided my Grenier....

Well, with the impending return to the UK, a local vide grenier (literally translated it means empty your attic) seemed like an ideal opportunity to get rid of some of our piles of unwanted stuff.

So, the CH and I have dutifully rooted through the barns and the cellar (and, God forbid the last two boxes which we hadn't opened since we moved here the best part of 5 years ago!) and, apart from one dead mouse, turned up a motley but rather glorious selection of 'objets' to sell.

I'll be honest and admit that among the objets were a fair amount of tat but you live in hope don't you.

The CH and I arrived and set out our wares. The resulting display was very pleasing and included a Georgian tea strainer, a set of Royal Doulton china, an antique Copeland coffee set, a few Clarice Cliff plates and an old shower head.

Now, those of you who've been reading for a while will know that where we live in La France Profonde, where the biggest choice you'll have to make is whether to marry your cousin or take up linedancing,is not exactly the most cultured area. So, guess which one sold?

Did you guess right? Well, did you?

It was, of course, the old shower head! I asked a Euro for it and the old boy knocked me down to 50 cents! Honestly, how can you haggle over a Euro?

The strange thing about the French is they want you to pay way over the odds for their stuff but try and prise so much as 20 cents out of their hot little hand and, well to be honest, undoing a Gordian knot might be simpler.

I had a pile of hardly worn boy's Quiksilver t-shirts for a Euro...

C'est trop cher, Madame (too expensive)

A set of crystal wineglasses, unused, still with their labels. 5 Euros.

C'est trop cher, Madame

A Clarice Cliff plate for 4 euros.

C'est trop cher, Madame

A lovely 1920 tub chair for 50 euros which we bought in Blackrock Market in Dublin for over £100.

Je vous faire une offre, Madame, 10 euros (I'll make you an offer, Madame, 10 euros)

But the best was DS's old Gamecube and games on which, much to his chagrin, I got knocked down by the son to Mr Showerhead to 10 euros. As I wandered around looking for that undiscovered Monet, I found it on his own stall for 25 Euros!

The CH's collection of 1920s Bakelite cream makers caused a huge stir and if I'd got a Euro for each time I said 'c'est pour faire la crème, Monsieur/Madame' I'd have made a damn site more than I did for our treasures!

As I sat in the sun watching people, and it should be said, bemoaning that fact that the CH was despatched home specifically to get a parasol and a TV and returned with neither, and seeing what they had bought from other people's stalls I realised that our stuff was just too nice. The top sellers seemed to be rattan lampshades of the type that was popular in the 1980s, nasty bits of carved horn circa 1970 and other ethnic-alia and half sets of cheap crockery, in other words, all the stuff we took to the tip last week!

So, the day ended with us 50 euros richer, still with piles of unsold stuff which will now make it's way on to E-Bay and a back that you could fry an egg on - and on which I am off to smother a liberal coating of ointment.