In London, things can easily get too intense. We just never stop. I am sometimes so busy that I forget to have lunch. Believe me, this would never happen in France (As a matter of fact, it has never happened to me in France). I wonder where this social pressure is coming from. I suppose it what makes London, well, what it is. That said, I must admit that I needed a break. It must have been karma, because shortly afterwards I received an invitation to try out Spa London‘s Signature treatment: Cleopatra Milk & Honey Ritual. I had to accept. You see, it was research. It was work. At least that was my excuse.
I love going to spas, but somehow I never find the time. Don’t get me wrong, I have tried many, many times. But, you see, I am a simple girl. I hate places that are too clinical, where they talk slowly, and take themselves far too seriously. I also hate products that smell like artificial sweets, and have complicated names. I once laughed at the face of the therapist who wanted to put a stinking cream with some caviar in it on my face (please!). The thought of having fish eggs on my face was just too much.
As a result, I usually go the the cheapest option around, and only for the most basic treatments (waxing anyone?). This means that I often end up in the basement of a hairdresser or a nail salon for a few minutes of torture (yes, even threading bloody hurts).
As some of you have told me that they couldn’t find my new column on Match.com to read my new column, I had to help. Here it is. And once again, don’t be scared: no need to register to be able to read it. I promise.
Just enjoy without moderation…because that’s what life is about, right? Here we go!
Whether you like it or not, looking and feeling French is the latest craze. If you look French, men will hold the restaurant doors for you, be charming and generally behave in a much more civilised way. I never really quite understood why, and come to think of it, it is totally unfair and completely unjustified, but that’s simply the way it is. No later than this morning, I woke up in my London hotel room, and went downstairs to have some breakfast. The thing is, I am not a morning person, and I was still half asleep. As a result, I missed a step. I didn’t fall or anything. I just missed a step. Within two seconds, I had no less than three guys around me, acting really concerned:
“Are you alright, mademoiselle?”
Read the rest here…
If you follow me on Twitter you probably already know that I went to Birmingham last Friday. I had a lovely time with food critic legend Paul Fulford and hugely talented journalist Sanjeeta Bains. But here is the whole story…
Life can be such a tease. The last time I went to Birmingham was over 10 years ago, and I must admit that I was really pleased not to have to go back. The truth was that I had had a bit of a tough time there. For instance, I will always remember the day I arrived at Birmingham. I used to work for a French company called Alstom as a Transport executive, and was assigned to help on the Pendolino project. I took a cab from the airport, where I had landed from Paris. We went straight to Washwood Heath, where the factory was. There was some sort of car boot sale going on, and sofas were lying on the street, together with old TVs, tables and chairs. The cab driver had to slalom in and out of the furniture to eventually reach our destination. What a journey, I thought to myself. Little did I know that it was only the start.
I paid the cab driver, and went to the security booth. The guard was clearly in the middle of his cup of tea, and sighed deeply when I started talking to him. He eventually called my contact in the factory:
“I have a lady from an exotic country for you at the entrance.”
Right, I thought, this will not be easy.
In case you have been hibernating, let me share the big news with you: Kate Middleton, Duchess of Cambridge, had a baby daughter yesterday. Both mother and baby are doing well, and, unlike the rest of us mums who looked dishevelled after giving birth, Kate looked immaculate, and waved at the crowd with not only perfect hair, but also a relaxed smile.
Me after giving birth. Much more realistic, right?
I might be French, but it took me a tad longer to look back to my former self. Lesson learned. If there is a next time for me (which is highly unlikely), I will have my make-up artist and my hairdresser at the ready. Oh, and a maternity nurse of curse, to avoid those dark circles that never go. I wish…
As you know, I am committed to improving your French vocabulary. Today, I am going to tell you all about a French expression ‘Poser un lapin’ (Literally: to put -down?- a rabbit). But first of all, you need to have a little bit of background.
Here it is: I caught up with a French friend of mine today, and she was in a terrible mood. You see, she was stood up by a guy on (what was supposed to be) their first date. Boy, she was angry. She hated men in general, and this one in particular. Between two sobs, it is fair to say that she hated the whole world.
‘ Il m’a pose un lapin!’ she said.
Sob, sob, sob.
Things were incredibly busy, and you may remember that I was close to a full-blown burnout last week (read here if you don’t believe me). Well, I am pleased to say that things have improved. As in, they have improved a lot.
Right, where do I start?
Well, I am proud to announce that I am the latest columnist of Match.com, and you can read my first post here: My Top 10 Tips To Look & Feel French. What do you think? I have been jumping up and down all day, because it looks great, and the response so far has been nothing short of amazing. I have been telling the whole world (and his sister) about it. However, the reaction of some of my French friends was a bit disappointing. One of the comments I got was:
” Well, not bad!”
What? Not bad? I have been singing “Diamonds” of Rihanna in the shower since yesterday ! Then I remembered. We French don’t say ‘great!’ or ‘well done!’. No, instead, we say ‘not too bad’ or ‘not shabby at all’. Damn it. I have become British. Lesson learned.
So, if you want to sound French, next time somebody does something great, just tell him or her ‘Not bad’. And wait for the slap.
My French friends keep asking me how I can cope with the bad weather in London. Because, according to them, everything is so grey, right? Well, they say that you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. And grey doesn’t have to be boring, right?
In fact, look at this picture, and tell me what is boring about it…
I might look good but I am not relaxed at all…
I keep being asked whether I had a nice break. Of course I had a lovely break. But the truth is, right now I have so much to do that I don’t know where to start. The Easter break has lasted the best part of a month. This is completely bonkers! A whole month! No wonder I need to play catch-up! The worst part, if you ask me, is to have to prepare my French taxes. Total and utter nightmare. And because the after-school clubs haven’t started yet, I simply have no time to do anything. I keep starting stuff that I can’t finish. So yes, I am in a foul mood. How do women manage to work in this country? And to top everything up I get condescending comments on a daily basis. I can’t take it any more. So, if you see me, please avoid the following comments. For your own good, I am telling you.
Elina started following my blog a few months ago. She happens to be a cosmopolitan mother of two, blogger, fitness and health enthusiast and geek.You can read her at UrbanMumble and you will see for yourself that despite her young age (why am I feeling so old?), she is incredibly mature and well-grounded. She wanted to defend British men (you know all too well that I never miss an opportunity to criticise British men, right?), and in the interest of fairness and freedom of speech (yep, you read that right, I am in a militant mood today), I offered her to guest post on my site. Here is what she had to say…
Ville Valo. [Note from Muriel: I think I could go Finnish, Elina…]
A few weeks ago, I stumbled upon Muriel’s brilliant article “To flirt or not to flirt”, a post about some of the romantic differences between French and British men. In a nutshell, the French Yummy Mummy estimates (quite accurately in my opinion) that British seduction is about 10% words and 90% booze whereas the opposite holds true for the French. This observation immediately chimed with me, being a foreign national who has lived both in the UK and France, for a number of years.
However, this is all very relative. See, where I come from, Finland, the country of the socially awkward and painfully timid, things are way worse. I would go as far as to say that Finnish seduction is about 99% booze and 1% incomprehensible blabber. Compared to that, British men appear deliciously eloquent, exquisitely charming and exceedingly friendly. No wonder the small talking and friendly British men are in pretty high demand amongst Finnish ladies (I should know because I ended up with one too).
In fact, Finnish ladies love British men so much that they come in the top 5 of foreign spouses to Finnish women. These marriages can be counted in the thousands per year, an impressive figure considering our tiny population. These couples end up divorcing more rarely than almost any other combination. This phenomenon does not seem to work both ways though. Finnish men do not marry British women in abundance.
To find out what is behind the magnetic pull British men have over Finnish women, I did two things. 1) I asked my friends, many of whom demonstrate a preference for British men, 2) turned to some obscure internet forums where people speak their minds without censorship. I had to censor some of that content for this post to remain politically correct but in short, the verdict is this:. British men may not be the most handsome in Europe, nor do they have the sophisticated flirting skills of the French. However, their cool charm, politeness and ability to converse (with a distinguished accent) appeals to the attention-deprived Finnish women.
If you read the papers over here, there is a good chance that you will find at least one article about child obesity. The irony is that, in France, we don’t talk about this issue much. That said, I understood more about the issue last week when I saw teenage girls in school uniforms queuing at a local restaurant to get a takeaway for their lunches. Guess what the lunch consisted of: a huge portion of fries (like, a whole paper plate), with dollops of mayonnaise (or ketchup) on top of it. I couldn’t believe it. The owner even had a special deal for them, and was calling them sweetheart and darling. They were clearly regulars. My lunch never ever consisted of a huge portion of fries. It is just something that a French person wouldn’t do, you see. If you are in a rush, you have a salad or a sandwich, or even a kebab. Never just fries. It simply wouldn’t cross my mind.