What is going on? A few new readers have subscribed to this blog, and they don’t understand what it is all about. They started complaining (of course they did). What am I talking about? Well, here are some of the best comments I received over the last two weeks:
“As you are French, I thought that you were writing about food. I am very surprised that you don’t.” (That’s actually a summary, the actual message would have taken a whole post)
“I read your blog but as you don’t talk about sex I still can’t make out the real cause. After all, you are French! I’m sorry if this hurts!”
“You look like an angel.”
“You are a very sexy lady.”
“Would you please send me dirty messages?” (No I won’t)
“Could you post a recipe of the Kouign-amann?” (Sacrilege! I am not from Brittany!)
In short, you should get the gist of it by now. As a French woman, and just because you happen to be French, you have to be:
- A sex Goddess
- A foodie
After the Two-Oceans marathon I needed a new challenge. That’s just me, I suppose. You see, I don’t fit into any particular category. For instance, I am French, but also British. I am a runner, but I don’t really like the usual 5k or 10k races. So what to do? Well, I have set my my views on a 100k race: the Thames Path Challenge on the 10th of September, from Putney Bridge to Henley.
What can I say? I love long distances. As in, really long distances. This time, I will be running for a charity I have been supporting for years, ActionAid, Please wish me luck. I am not sure what I got myself into. You can click on my fundraising page here: https://www.justgiving.com/Muriel-Demarcus. Of course I would be delighted if you could sponsor me, but I would also really appreciate you to send me some encouragements as I am not sure what I got myself into. I take some comfort in the fact that, when I run for a long time, there comes a point when I feel really bad (this is actually a British understatement), but it doesn’t get any worse (am I making sense? I hope so).
And frankly, nothing can describe the feeling of having completed a long race. I just love it.
I am back home. Or am I really? Where is home anyway? I don’t know. But this much I know: things seem to happen at a different pace over here, in Provence. I am trying hard to make my children love this place. After all, it is where I grew up.
It’s harder than I thought. My younger one wants to speak English. Why wouldn’t she? But when she does, everybody is looking at her as if she were a freak. No, she’s only British! We are not in the touristic part of Provence. We have to conform. She has to speak French. I am glad she is trying. We’ll get there. Eventually.
The views of the Mediterranean sea are breathtaking, and there is magic in the light over here. I wish I could train for my races here: there are hills, traffic-free roads along the beach and fantastic trails. What am I doing in London again? Why did I leave?
There is always a small chapel to reach at the top of a hill (Notre Dame De Miremer in this instance), and I feel like I am travelling back in time, sharing with my daughters what I used to do every weekend. Ah, memories!
I am miffed. Whatever I do, wherever I go, I am always ‘the French one’. My friends and colleagues still consider me to be French. Why? Why such a double standard? I have colleagues who, just like me, are naturalised citizen. They are considered to be British. Sometimes, someone says that they are ‘Indian-born’ or ‘from the continent’, but that’s as far as it goes.
As for me, despite my British passport and the fact that I have been living in London for the best part of 14 years, I am always considered to be French. ‘Ask Muriel’, someone says. ‘Who is she?’ ‘The French one’. But of course. What did I do to deserve to be stigmatised like this?