In case you have missed it, Fathers Day is on 18th of June this year. Unlike Mothers Day, the date is the same in France and this side of the Channel. This means that you have no excuses, and you can’t say you got mixed up with the dates.
Fathers Day in France has only existed since 1949 (Mothers in France started to be celebrated around 1909), so it’s fair to say that Fathers Day is relatively new. Fathers Day is a lot less popular than Mothers day in France. Usually you just call your dad to wish him a happy Fathers Day. Things are a little bit different over here: you are supposed to send a card, and give a little present. Visit UncommonGoods to see more gifts for men.
I’ll come clean: I have always wondered what it feels like to be a father. You see, when you become a mother, you are supposed to have nine months (or so) to get ready. You know that you are going to have a baby, your body changes, and eventually you have to deliver the baby (oh joy!). In short, biological mothers have to go through a well-defined process and this, in my view, makes it easier for us women to connect with our babies. Of course attachment can come in many different ways, but what I am trying to say here is that our body is making space for a brand new human being, and at the exact same time we are discovering the existence of a strange new room in the house where we already live (let’s call the new room ‘becoming a mother’). The biological and emotional processes happen at the same time. In short, I felt like I had no choice but to become a mother.
This post is written in collaboration with Qare, a video consultation website in London, and is the second post of a new series on the differences between the French healthcare and the NHS. You can read the first post here: http://frenchyummymummy.com/the-top-10-differences-between-the-nhs-and-the-french-system/
I will always remember the day an American friend of mine started talking about her physician’s bedside manners. To cut a long story short, I didn’t understand what she was talking about. I even thought that she was having an affair with her GP, which was a bit odd but hey, who was I to judge?
Turns out, she was having difficulties with her British doctor’s bedside manners. For those of you who, like me, might not know what bedside manners are, here is the definition:
“the way in which a doctor treats people who are ill, especially showing kind, friendly, and understanding behaviour.”
As for me, I feel like I need to come clean now: I thought that bedside manners were the way in which you behave after spending the night with someone. What can I say? I suppose that I remain very French.
More seriously, I think that the fact that so many of my French expat friends find it hard to adjust to a new system like the NHS comes down to bedside manners.
I have a secret to share with you: I am working on a new project. It’s top secret, it’s exciting, and I hope that you’ll like it. I can’t tell you more about it at this point in time, but I promise, I’ll keep you posted !
In the meantime, I wanted to thank you for your support. I also wanted you to be the first to know that my book, Le Guide Officiel To Becoming British can be downloaded for free here (for a limited time only), so enjoy without moderation and tell me what you think.
So what are you waiting for? Unleash your inner French…
I thought that this video was raising some interesting questions. On this note, have a great weekend, and tell me what you think…
Enough is enough. In case you have been hibernating, not a day passes without a flurry of articles mentioning Emmanuel Macron’s unusual marriage with a woman more than 20 years his senior. Forget about unemployment, Brexit, Chechen homosexuals being tortured and killed. From now on, it’s all about Brigitte Trogneux’ style, diet, clothes and unusual family set-up (because in case you have missed it, her children are of a similar age than her husband). Seriously, what is happening to this world? Read here if you don’t believe me: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-4483918/How-DOES-Macron-s-wife-defy-age.html
Please spare me the judgmental vibe, and let me speak my mind: who the hell cares? After all, it’s their business. Their private life is, well, private.
And why is it so shocking to see a man and an older woman? Nobody bats an eyelid when older men marry a much younger woman, so why the double standard? I am starting to become prouder of my home country: we French still value mature women, and we have timeless icons such as Catherine Deneuve (73 years old). Over here, in the UK, women seem to become invisible after a certain age.
This post is written in collaboration with Qare, a French telemedicine service in London, and is the start of a new series on the differences between the French healthcare and the NHS.
If, like me, you’re used to the French health system, moving to London will be a steep learning curve. First of all, it can be hard to find a French-speaking doctor. This is where Qare also can help: they set up virtual consultations with doctors -in French, and can refer you to a French doctor in London if need be. I wish I had known about this service when we moved. When you are on your own with a sick kid, things can become very stressful and it’s easy to panic (been there, done it). In France, your physician always listens to you. You’re always given a prescription, a routine examination, and taken seriously. Your symptoms will never be minimised, and if your doctor has the slightest doubt, you’ll be referred for a scan, an X-ray or a blood test. Needless to say, things are slightly different this side of the Channel. The weird thing is that, come to think of it, the health budget is similar in France and in the UK (OK, a bit higher in France, but not massively higher), and life expectancy is, again, very close. So why does it feel so different? I have no idea. But this much I know: for me, it was a whole new experience. Here is why. Let me know if I missed anything. And if you are planning to move here, be prepared! Don’t tell me you have not been warned.
Telemedicine is on the rise and can be the response to French expats’ concern. Picture: consultation with Qare
Over here, the first hurdle, after being registered, is to successfully achieve an appointment. What looks easy in theory is a game of patience and resilience. The line is always busy, and the receptionist will do her utmost to encourage you not to get an appointment, because you’re not sick, are you? In France, I have always managed to get an appointment within 48 hours. After many times calling your practice on speed dial and being hung up on a few times, you might be given a slot, usually two or three days after you need it. Don’t believe it’s the last of the hurdles you’ll have to overcome. It’s just the start.
I am exhausted. The children are going back to school tomorrow and frankly, I can’t wait. I was on the verge of calling the school to ask them whether they could take my daughters back a week earlier. Of course they wouldn’t. Silly French me. When I was growing up, we only had a two-week break for Easter. A two-week break with kids is manageable (well, sort of). But what do you do with a three-and-a-half-week break? You become a tired mum bordering on depression.
Believe me, it’s a steep learning curve. First of all, unless you have got childcare on tap with a nice aunt or grandmother nearby, you have to forget about any chances of having an employed job. No, it’s not happening. In order to have a slight chance of being promoted or having responsibilities, you must be ready to delegate the bringing-up of your children to an army of au-pairs and nannies. That’s the way it is. To make matters even worse, you have to work very hard to make it in London.
The afternoon tea is a great British institution. Come to think of it, it’s actually a way of life. I love it, because, for me, it usually is an excuse to have a glass of champagne in the afternoon. What’s not to like? Obviously you are not supposed to say this, but as I happen to be French, well, I’ll say it as it is. And you know me by now.
OK, I hear you, and now I feel guilty (just a bit). Let’s be politically correct for a paragraph : the afternoon tea is a good time to catch up with friends, and I tend to take all my French friends to have one. It usually breaks the ice. It is said that ‘afternoon tea’ was first introduced to England by Anna, the 7th Duchess of Bedford in the late 19th century to overcome “that sinking feeling” she felt in the late afternoon (wine o’clock -sorry, I did it again). So began a tradition that has endured throughout the centuries. Today, afternoon tea in some London hotels has become an art form, and sometimes you need to book it months in advance.
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.