C'est Modnifique!: Adventures of an English Grump in Rural France, page 16
I seemed to be copping an awful lot of flak here, it struck me that if there is anything that goes wrong anywhere in the Loire Valley then the fault will lie somewhere between my character flaws and the local Romany, we get the blame for everything.
Saturday evenings at home follow a pattern at this time of year; firstly watch The Voice (UK version) and then switch over and watch The Voice, pronounced Ze Voice (French version). Ze Voice just sends Samuel off on one again. What has him jumping up and down at Ze Voice though is the use of English by the judges. It's constant and it winds him up magnificently. At the sing-off stage of the show the contestants go into battle with each other singing the same song, so you would expect to hear French expressions like se battre and la bataille. No. In this episode I was forced to watch one of the judges (Florent Pagny, a French musician and actor who looks like an ageing Musketeer) tells one of his duelling pairs that he felt they were ready to 'bien vous fighter pendant la battle'. The presenter of the show then introduces each sing-off with the same expression: 'Que la battle commence!'
And this has Samuel screaming at the television, 'Why can't they get their own bloody language?'
It doesn't annoy me quite so much obviously, I like to think the French are trying to be so accommodating with me and my own struggle to speak their language that they are, as a nation, all learning English to make it easier for me to get by. In England, if you drop French into a sentence, for example, 'Do what you want, I give you carte blanche' you are deemed somewhat pretentious. In France, if you drop English into your sentence, simple words like 'yes' and 'news' are now becoming commonplace, you are either cool or guilty of dumbing the nation down, depending on which generation you are talking to.
Thankfully I'm not at home much on a Saturday as I just can't contain my own comportement while this dross is on, but basically the differences in the two versions are these. The Voice is certainly of a higher singing standard than Ze Voice and has an interplay between the judges which is playful and tongue in cheek. Ze Voice is utterly po-faced and takes itself oh-so seriously. That is essentially the difference between the French and the English though, why is there no historical culture of stand-up in France? Because they don't know how to laugh at themselves.
I was expounding on this theory after Samuel's weekly meltdown, giving full vent to my theories on stand up and the difference between the two nations and how they regard themselves, and no doubt I was doing so with typical, post-dinner pomposity and certainly not expecting anybody to actually listen.
'Why don't you do it here, Daddy?' asked Maurice innocently.
'Well, because I…' I spluttered, suddenly flustered.
'It means that you'd be here more, closer to us,' Samuel added.
From the mouths of babes, they say, and for some reason they went running off. Natalie looked at me, 'It would help your French,' she said, trying to make it sound like my French didn't actually need help, although we both knew the reality.
'It's not that simple,' I began. And the room waited for me to explain why it wasn't that simple.
'It could make a huge difference to the amount you travel.'
'Daddy! Daddy!' Maurice and Samuel came running back down the stairs. 'There's a comedy show in London in June IN FRENCH!' They screamed in unison having just googled me into a corner, 'You could do that!'
Suddenly my stomach hurt, I was sure I could feel a ganglion coming on.
No Pain, No Gain
I made it very clear when we got the goats that I was dead against the idea; they would be trouble, I said. Mark my words, I said, no good will come of it, I said. They are, it hasn't and Samuel's 'Please, Daddy' promises about looking after 'his' goats on a daily basis turned out to be only so much goat poop. They seemed to be taking up far too much time for starters, and I didn't actually think they were very nice animals. One of them had headbutted Vespa one morning leaving her visibly dazed, and this was following the traumatic removal of a tick so large it looked like she was wearing a hearing aid. Chewbacca especially, the least sociable of the goats, was an increasing problem.
Monday is my weekend. I rarely sleep on a Saturday night because of travel, so I go to bed early on a Sunday night when I get home, lie in on the Monday and laze about while Natalie is at work and the boys are all at school. I don't answer the phone or the door. It's 'me time' and I guard it preciously, even if it rarely actually goes to plan. Thérence, though, his cold having lasted almost as long as winter itself, was unwell again so he stayed at home with me. Then I got a call from Samuel's collège late morning, saying that once again he had fallen over on his head, and on an old scar too (as if there are now any scar-free areas) and was complaining of dizziness. He needed to come home they said.
It felt like a conspiracy, especially after the previous Monday's efforts...
'Come on! Get up! You're going to be late!'
At first, as Natalie sadistically opened the shutters I thought it was a dream. Get up? Monday morning? Are you sure? 'Come on!' she repeated urgently. Far from being allowed to gently recover from yet more sleep deprivation I had, it turned out, been 'volunteered'. I was due at Thérence's school for 8.30 a.m. to 'help out'.
'Help out with what?' I asked still half asleep. 'Surely they can eat their own plasticine? What do they need me for?'
Apparently it was the annual défilé, a procession around town featuring the youngest pupils from the primary school, all in various fancy-dress costumes and Natalie had, in a fit of guilt that she couldn't actually be there herself, volunteered my services as a general fancy-dress dresser, walker, holder of hands and traffic cop; forgetting of course that I have almost as much patience with four- and five-year-old children as I do with escaping goats.
It looked like a riot in the wardrobe department of a heavily dwarf-based pantomime. Of about a hundred children there were probably thirty Spidermen, including a couple of girls, which is either progressive or the direct result of lazy parenting and an older brother; there were also about fifty princesses, some who'd been really dolled up as if for one of those sinister beauty pageants for little girls in the United States. There were also a lot of tears being shed and much crying at an alarming pitch. Thérence, I noticed, was keeping his own counsel in the corner, his Yoda costume lending him a gravitas that the proceedings desperately needed.
I entered the room nervously and stood out like a… well like a Yoda in a Spiderman/princess mash up to be honest. In a sop to what I hoped was finally spring, I had on a light, 'Michael Caine in The Ipcress File mac', grey dog-tooth trousers and a pair of Loake Chelsea boots. 'Glad you've made the effort,' said Thérence's teacher, looking me up and down. 'Now, put this on.' It was a bright yellow high-vis jacket that made me look like I was off to fight the Cold War, but only within the allowable parameters of health and safety. It all added to my discomfiture as I was not only separated from Thérence but had a Spiderman on one side and a princess with a serious mucus problem on the other.
The first stop in the procession was the next school up, Maurice's school. Unfortunately he wasn't there as he was away on a school trip, some of his footballing friends were though.
'Look at Maurice's dad!' they said pointing; clearly my costume was getting more attention than any of the kids'. 'What's he supposed to be?'
The next school on the route was a good five-minute walk away and as we wound our way around the streets we were accompanied by the only other male who'd 'volunteered' and he got to carry the music. Once, of course, someone would have played an instrument on one of these jaunts, but this was an enormous, 1980s-style ghetto blaster and was being used to pollute the quiet morning with some appallingly inappropriate instrumental music: 'Ride of the Valkyries' to start us off and, at one point, incongruously, 'The Stripper'.
The bigger school was waiting for us and the children were already lined up in the playground opposite as we entered. It looked like the start of a battle, a Raggedy Rawney-style army of nine-year-olds about to unleash hell on the midget Spider–princess people from the other valley; Thérence, ever sensitive to these things, stepped forward from our group and administered some pretty aggressive lightsaber manoeuvres in their direction, which seemed to break the ice a little.
It was getting colder and the children were feeling it. Fortunately, Natalie had insisted that Thérence wear his coat under his Jedi Master garb, but some of the princesses in particular were suffering and, as princesses do, weren't keeping it to themselves. Even the Spidermen were feeling the chill. One, even smaller than Thérence and incongruously wearing a cast and an arm sling, ran into the boulangerie and refused to come out, the warmth of the place offering succour to the poor, shivering crime-fighting mite.
On we went, a bizarre sight, wending our way through the town stopping startled passers-by and getting them to dance. This wasn't my job, I hasten to add, this was the role of people who'd helpfully brought along a large dollop of brio and had seemingly left their dignity in a jar by the door, Eleanor Rigby style. My job was to stand at the back, frown a bit and give the whole thing a bit of a moody presence, which otherwise it would have lacked. I watched the teachers and some of the mums frolicking about to the music, obviously enjoying it far more than the freezing kids, and wondered what on earth this whole thing was in aid of. Was it a charity thing? I had no idea, and this was my third tour of duty. I had been roped into something, surrounded by whooping, swirling apparently drug-free adults all dressed as tits, frankly, and nobody seemed to be collecting any money at all. Utter madness.
Then we stopped at the mairie so that the 'press' could take pictures. Just as I was about to sneak off to a camera-shy corner, Thérence's teacher once again collared me and gave me a huge bag of confetti. For the past 20 minutes the kids had been docile, rendered inactive by plummeting temperatures and skimpy costumes, but blimey, you show a bag of confetti to a French kid and all hell breaks loose. I stood there for a second with the bag and there was a brief pause. Then all of a sudden it was like holding a bag of chips on Brighton beach and they swooped like hungry seagulls. I got covered in the stuff, which of course only added to my overall merriment and only fuelled their spirit, as what seemed like a Lilliputian Mardi Gras kicked off.
Finally, warmed up and spent, we moved off to our final stop, la maison de retraite. The old folk, and I mean old, had been wheeled out in their beds and wheelchairs to view this vivid, bizarre procession as it snaked slowly around their TV room. Some of the people were barely conscious, some clearly resentful of any whiff of youth and all as befuddled by the exercise as I was. The children recognised the change in mood; for some it must have been utterly terrifying, as they would suddenly be grabbed by bony, yellow hands and cuddled against their will. In order to keep the children's spirits up in this heavy atmosphere, they had been promised sweets, but it didn't help.
This final visit did appear to be the sole purpose of the event, though, and for that I suppose it can't be knocked. The local schools are very much a part of the community here, teachers and education respected as they should be. What might seem a little old fashioned in the UK is everyday life in France; children are to be seen and to be seen enjoying themselves too, and even an old cynic like me thinks that's a good thing. Having said that, as we finally made it back to school there was a lot of tiredness, frozen hands, hunger and quite a few tears. The kids seemed fine, however.
A week later and it looked like this Monday was going to be hijacked too, by child illnesses. Samuel was gingerly lying down on the sofa and groaning, Thérence was streaming with a cold, but not groaning, and then the doorbell rang.
'What now?!' I yelled as the dogs went berserk at the front gate. Maybe the new suit I'd ordered from Italy had arrived, so I allowed myself a brief moment of optimism and went to answer the bell. It was a young man with very definite Parisian looks.
'Bonjour,' he said, a tad warily I thought, 'erm, have you lost a goat?'
I sighed heavily and let my head drop. 'I don't know,' I answered resignedly, 'possibly.'
The man had come from our immediate neighbour, Madame LeBoeuf, an old lady of 90-plus years who values her roses even above her independence and who had instructed one of her visiting grandsons to see if I'd mislaid any livestock. I followed the man next door and there indeed was Chewbacca munching perilously close to the young rose bushes. The young man was joined by his brother, who may even have been his twin, and then they both looked at me. As Parisians they were clearly unsuited to the task of goat recovery and in seeking help next door I think they'd expected to find a man of the soil, a handy goat man, not a dandy in Prince of Wales check trousers, a cravat and tan Church's brogues.
For an hour I tried to trap that goat, an hour. I tried tempting him with food, I tried lassoing him with a dog lead, having practised since the last time, and I tried shouting obscenities at him, but I couldn't get near him. At one point he ran close by and I tried to rugby-tackle him, missed and hit the driveway pretty hard. I lay there for a minute to gather my thoughts.
'Are you OK?' asked one of the brothers.
'No,' I said. 'I think I've torn my trousers.'
It had all begun in standard comic fashion. We had, all three of us, tried trapping Chewbacca or grabbing him as he sped past, but it had got beyond a joke and the Parisians, now chain-smoking, were seriously wondering if it would ever end and whether in fact I had any plans for catching Chewbacca at all beyond waiting for his eventual death from old age. I had no plan – that was obvious.
'Have you got a gun?' I asked, only half jokingly.
'No,' they replied rapidly and in unison, not seeing the humour and seriously worrying for their grandmother's safety with this strangely dressed nut-job living next door. I think by this point even Chewbacca was getting bored. I couldn't contain myself any longer – my shoes were a muddied mess, my trousers were ripped at the knee and in a fit of genuine anger I tore off my cravat, folded it into my pocket and then, as the goat made another flypast, I howled in primeval anger and took a flying leap at him. I landed on him, put my arms around him and rolled a few yards with him in my clutches, finally coming to a stop dangerously near to the precious roses. The two men stared in disbelief, their cigarettes hanging from their open mouths.
I stood up, still hugging a shocked Chewbacca. 'Open the gate!' I demanded, choosing loud orders over genuine composure. I carried a stunned Chewbacca back round to our house and fortunately he didn't struggle in my arms, or I wouldn't have been able to hold him. I even managed to open the stable door with one arm and hold him with the other; from a short distance we must have looked like a really angry ventriloquist and his dummy. I threw him into the stable, swore at him again and locked him in.
Even after dinner that night I hadn't calmed down. Maurice had come home from his school trip feeling sick, making the place look like a children's ward, and I was now limping after damaging my knee, which I had done, I pointed out to Natalie and Samuel, while ripping my trousers, while catching your bloody goat! I was laying it on thick, that's for sure, but I was very annoyed.
'Maybe it will help you get fit?' ventured Samuel, unusually timidly.
'Lose a bit of weight…' added Maurice, pushing it further.
'Fatty boom-boom!' shouted Thérence insultingly and prodding my stomach.
Natalie was silent.
Now, there are many good reasons to my mind why the French word for bread is pain. There's the serious chance of gum damage from some of the more fashionable and rustic 'newer' breads like the croquise; you could easily batter someone to death with a three-day-old baguette and, because the stuff is so, so tasty, the resulting weight issues from three-times-a-day consumption cause genuine discomfort.
OK, fair enough; it's not just the bread. There's wine and cheese too, lots of the stuff. Every day. And now, even when I'm away from home working, I've started hunting out French restaurants and patisseries to fill the temporary gap. It used to be that when I was away I'd deliberately eat the kind of things I couldn't get in France, like fish and chips, cheap sausages, carveries and the like. Now I ponce around markets looking for decent goat's cheese, choosing my wine not by price and ease of opening, but by grape, region and year.
My 'gout' if indeed that's what it was (though I remained sceptical) had thankfully not reappeared, even though I hadn't really changed my diet, but undeniably, and this is something that occurs about this time every year when the winter jumpers come off and the extra 'bulk' is more visible, I needed to exercise. The other option of course would be to cut down on my bread/cheese/wine axis-of-evil consumption, but firstly what would be the point in living in one of the richest gastronomical areas of the world if I did that, and secondly, I like them too much. Exercise really was the only way forward. Two years ago I had been a 30-inch waist; I was now a 34, which is just about the mod-1960s-Italian-cut-suit limit.
I gave up football when I was 24 and that was the last exercise I did with any regularity at all, and I gave up that because my body, made more for the arts I feel, couldn't take the strain of 90 minutes of running around once a week. I could consider cycling, but since old Monsieur Girresse had threatened to shoot any member of my family who trespassed on his land, it seemed a risky venture. I bought one of those elastic exercise rope things, which came with a huge set of instructions, and set off one weekend optimistically thinking that I would spend my downtime not in a pub for once, but in various positions and stretching various muscles and 'feeling good about myself', which seems to be the exerciser's cliché of choice. I didn't. Even though I was on my own in my hotel room doing all these stretches, pulls and jumps, I got so embarrassed that I couldn't carry on.
