It’s pancake day today. Before you ask, in France we call it Mardi gras (literally, Fat Tuesday).
Except that this year I can’t stuff my face.
You don’t want to see me smiling with my teeth…
Well, to cut a long story short, I’ve got braces (I know, so un-French, right?), and I have already lost at least one kg (that’s exactly 2.2 lbs for those of you who don’t do kg) in less than 5 days. And no, apparently I can’t have Invisalign or other things, because of what needs to be corrected. Bummer. My mouth feels dry all the time, and I am in a bad mood. I have gone back to baby food, save for the melted dark Belgian chocolate that they sell in my local supermarket (it’s a life saver, and I need to buy another pot). You’ve got to live a little, right?
In short, I don’t like it. I can’t chew, I have a metallic taste in my mouth all the time, and I feel like I can’t run any more (That’s my excuse anyway). To make matters even worse, I need to make pancakes (well, the French version of it) for the whole family, but I am not sure to be able to have some. Damn it. I am seriously considering going on pancake strike. That would be French, wouldn’t it? There is nothing like a good old strike.
As most of you already know, “Pardon my French” or “Excuse my French” is a common English language phrase ostensibly disguising swear words as words from the French language. The phrase is usually used in an attempt to excuse the speaker of profanity, swear words and the likes in the presence of those offended by it, under the pretense of the words being part of a foreign language (French, of course!)
As I happen to be French (what can I say?Nobody is perfect, right?), whenever somebody says ‘Excuse my French’, he/she usually laughs and takes even more pleasure in using the phrase.
Been there. Done it. Don’t find it funny any more. Yawn.
When friends come over to visit London, they keep asking me what they should do and where they should go. My recommendation is always the same: go to a Marks & Spencer store (preferably a big one, like the one on Oxford street or on High Street Kensington). I realise that this sounds a bit unusual. But I am just being pragmatic here. Because in any M&S shop, you will capture the essence of Britishness in one go.
This is what I have explained in my entry on http://www.eurostar.com/fr-fr/week-end-londres (go to the end of the page, then scroll the different bloggers & you’ll see me)!
So why did I choose M&S?
First of all, there is something about the food there. You will find icons such as Colin the caterpillar and Pepa pig sweets. They will have colours and shapes you didn’t even imagine could be edible. You will also find mint sauce, mince pies and Cadbury chocolates. M&S is a all-in-one. Simply put, it’s a concentrate of Britishness.
It’s starting again. The French general election is looming, and I keep receiving emails from far too many candidates essentially saying ‘Vote for me!’
The truth is, I don’t read them any more. It’s like deja-vu all over again. Frankly, I can’t be bothered. I still read French newspapers, but it seems to me that, over the last years, France has remained stuck in its old way, and things are not going to change any time soon.
New ideas seem to emerge, like the basic income (which, as I understand it, means that everybody would receive an unconditional sum of money), and I feel like France, once again, hasn’t changed. It’s all nice and well to give money away, but who is going to finance it? France already has one of the highest tax rates in the world! This would cost c. 25% of France GDP, or over 550 Billions Euros. Where would they come from? The already hard-pressed taxpayers and businesses? Seriously? And what about the culture of entitlement that we are going to perpetuate if this is implemented? Who is going to do the hard work, such as collecting the bins, caring about the elderly, cleaning, stacking the shelves…if it’s easier to sit on the sofa and wait for a guaranteed paycheck? As much as the idea can appeal from a theoretical point of view, I find it completely unrealistic.
It’s this time of the year: tame new year’s resolutions are popping all over the Internet, and I can’t take it any more. Seriously, enough is enough. I am sick and tired of do-gooders advocating (in no particular order) clean eating, virtual kindness and hashtag solidarity. I am a French woman, and I want to be a badass. And I won’t apologise for being who I am. So what will I do this year? Well, I will try to be…myself, warts and all. Because that’s more than enough, right? So what does it mean?
I will not do any detox
Seriously, does anyone believe in detox any more? And what’s wrong with a glass of wine from time to time? Why do we have to detox from all the things we like? Life is to be enjoyed, me thinks.
I will have my cake and eat it.
I love baking anyway. And it’s all about quality over quantity, right? What can be better than a homemade cake? I have read somewhere that clean eating is a dirty word now anyway.
Don’t mess with me.
I am tired of being nice. Seriously, what is it with us women always trying to do ‘the right thing’ and suck it up? I have been told far too many times to grit my teeth and smile politely when someone says or does something stupendously rude, and I can’t do it any more. Furthermore, my choices may be unconventional, but I won’t apologise for them. And don’t you dare judge me. Not happy? Go get your own life and screw your judgement.
because life isn’t a fairytale…
2016 is finally over. What a year!
Now bring it on, 2017! I am happy to report that I am spending the first days of the year in Australia, and I love it. Despite the very high temperatures, things are very chilled over here. I find it incredibly relaxing. I just wanted to share with you my initial findings on life down under. Let me know if I forgot anything. And this much I know: it will be hard to go back to London. I have read somewhere that it was cold and foggy, and I am not looking forward to it at all…
- First of all, nobody, and I mean really nobody, has asked me where I was from. In the same vein, nobody has commented on my French accent. In London, I am asked where I am from on a daily basis. In fact, I think that it has become some sort of national obsession. Over here, nobody cares. The only questions I get are ‘How are you?’ and ‘Where did you buy your bodyboard?’. Period;
- Australians are a lot fitter that their British counterparts. In England, I often get the gym all to myself. Well, over here, the gym is always full, even at 5am. Having young little ones is not an excuse to skip a workout, and I have seen mums who bring their toddlers, put them in a pram in the corner of the fitness center, and exercise as if there were no tomorrow. Wow!
- Australians talk to each other. This really came to a revelation, and at first it made me feel uncomfortable because in England you tend to keep yourself to yourself. And if you have to, you start your sentences with ‘Excuse-me,…’. Well, things are clearly different in Oz . Simply put, you don’t have to apologise to talk to somebody. People greet me on the street all the time, and this morning, a fellow jogger even wished me a happy new year. Unbelievable. I tried to smile and say something nice, but I must admit that after years of being looked down upon when I open my mouth to say something, I felt a bit rusted. What can I say? I have become British;
- Everyday, I am in awe of Australia’s outstanding beauty. Seriously, what more do you need when you wake up and see this?
- Continue Reading
Whether you live in London or in Paris, some things never change: you live a fast-paced life. This means that you are always rushing around. Always.
I hadn’t realised how fast-paced my life was until a few days ago, when I landed in Australia for some much-needed holidays. To cut a long story short, things are a lot more chilled this side of the world. And although I was a bit surprised at first, now I like it.
In London, we look down on whoever dares to walk too slowly. We expect a quick service when we go to a restaurant. Our grocery shopping is done in less than 10 minutes. We moan when the Tube is a few minutes late. We are always in a hurry, and juggling far too many plates. Of course, I am no exception. I always have something to do, somewhere to be. It never stops.
I have been asked countless times why I didn’t put my children into a French school.
Obviously after so many years in London I have learned (sometimes the hard way) the art of understatement, because my immediate thought after such questions is usually ‘Over My Dead Body’. I answer that the French lycée was oversubscribed and change the conversation.
You see, it took me more than 30 years to escape from France, I am so not going back. I don’t get this idea that French parenting and French schools are somewhat superior. Apparently, we French know how to be more strict, our children behave in a much better manner. But of course. Let’s not sugarcoat it: whoever wrote this clearly hasn’t been brought up in France, and wants to feed parents’ insecurities to make a quick buck. Spending a bit of time in Paris posh districts doesn’t make you a French expert. The reality is, once again, far more complicated.
In France, there is a darker side than meets the eyes. What am I talking about? Well, what still often passes as acceptable in France, such as smacking or insulting your children, would be unacceptable to your average British household. Don’t get me wrong, all French parents aren’t the same. That said, I am convinced that French children are better-behaved because their parents wouldn’t mind exercising some unpleasant means of punishment should they fail to stay silent. It is also pretty common to see parents ignoring their children: for instance, adults and children usually don’t mix during family meals or at the restaurant, and children are routinely left to their own devices.
Recently, during my travels, I have had far too many comments regarding my nationality. I keep saying that, yes, I am French-born, but I now have a British passport, to no avail. Once again, whatever I do, I am ‘the French one’. That said, we French are the envy of the world, right? We also have the reputation to be rude and arrogant. I have therefore decided to make the most of it. Here is how…
Let’s start with the obvious. In order to be true to your reputation, don’t check in online, turn up as late as possible and change the seat a few times. That will teach them, right? Stay hydrated: this means that it’s OK to arrive at the airport already drunk, and continue the party onboard. Make a huge fuss to be upgraded -we French moan all the time, so just go for it… Jump the queue, and argue that it can’t be possible that all these people are travelling business class anyway. Just do it. There is always someone who does it. Why not you this time?
Let’s face it: there’s nothing glamorous or exciting about commercial air travel, especially if you have to go to Stansted airport at the crack of dawn. That said, that’s not an excuse to dress down. High heels are a must, and will amaze your fellow passengers. And don’t forget your sunglasses at all times to complete the look.
As I am in a good mood today, and as I have had enough of the doom and gloom, I thought I’d share with you the accumulated wisdom of my many years spent travelling the world – a definitive guide to make air travel palatable for you, but not necessarily for those around you. After all, if I am the French one, warts and all, I need to act like one…Every cloud has its silver lining, right?
It is this time of the year, I suppose. It is getting colder and darker by the minute, and to make matters even worse I am bombarded with emails promising me the best discounts ever. Frankly, I can’t take it anymore. And believe me, I have tried to unsubscribe from all the various newsletters, but it doesn’t seem to work. I am starting to use a service called unroll.me to have a tidier email box. We’ll see if it makes things a bit better. Because right now, I have had enough.
Let me be clear: I don’t want to buy anything. When did Black Friday become such a big thing?
I don’t remember anything about Black Friday when I was growing up. Now it is simply everywhere. Even in France it is gaining momentum.
I was explained that Black Friday is the start of the Christmas season, hence its popularity. But this consumerism craze is getting on my nerves. Seriously, there is only so much that you need, right? I feel like going to a remote place for the next six months or so, and forget about society in general and bulk messaging in particular. I might be becoming asocial. What’s wrong with me?