I have to admit, this is neither about writing nor reading, in any sense...but I was searching for an idea for something really cheering to cook in this cold weather, and remembered this fabulous recipe. It is vegetarian, but really tasty and satisfying enough for non veggies to love. It is adapted from a Joanne Harris recipe, and is just the ticket for a cold, winter's night. It is also drop dead easy to cook, but I have to warn you, as you are making it, you will probably think 'This is NEVER going to work'...but it does! In fact, it is so good, I wanted to share....amounts are variable,,it isnt an exact science...but do use lots of cabbage and chillies...and garlic!
Tourte au camembert
You need...a dark green cabbage...or portion thereof
one or two HOT chillies (I use the seeds too, but then I like it HOT!)
Two or three cloves of garlic..FAT ones!
Potatoes...about 700 grams to feed four? Diced into large dice.(inch square?)
2 eggs
Veggie stock (the new gel type cubes from Knor are fab)
1 large Camembert (or Coulommiers) round cheese
Cherry tomatoes
olive oil
Soooo...get some water boiling, pop in the spuds for a few minutes til they are lightly cooked...not too soft. Drain.
Into a big oven cook pot put the diced cabbage, chillies (chopped), garlic (chopped) and in a big jug mix the eggs with the stock (just the gel cube, not water) and the oil...a good five tablespoons or more. Beat that lot up and add to the cabbage, and part cooked spuds. Mix it all up, add a lid and bung it in the oven for a good while...til it all collapses and seems kind of cooked. (probably 3 quarters of an hour to an hour)(what did I say about this NOT being an exact science?) If it is too dry, add a little more oil (OK, I never said it was low fat).
Then, remove move the lid, and place large pieces of camembert on top...best to slice the round of cheese in half to get two thinner rounds...then cut into big pieces and place on top of the cooked cabbage and spuds. Add a good handful of cherry tomatoes, and put it all back in the oven until the cheese is melting and browning a little, and the toms are blackening nicely.
ET VOILA! Please let me know if you try this? You can make it as spicy as you like...or not...but the chilli really does add a nice kick and twist...Bon appetit!
mercredi 26 janvier 2011
dimanche 23 janvier 2011
Rant. Customer service, SFR? Vous ne comprenez pas les mots?
It seems that, much as we love so many things about this life in France, the standard of customer service in many companies is not among them.
Since experiencing problems with mobile phone company SFR, I have heard of many similar incidents, and so, rather than being very British and keeping quiet about it all, Iam going to have a cathartic rant.
Over five months ago, when my daughter moved back to the UK to study, we were told by SFR that we could stop her mobile phone contract without fee, as the contract allows for this if you move abroad. Dutifully, we sent recorded delivery letters requesting this, and including signed, stamped and dated certificates of her studies and her apartment. We received a letter in reply, requesting us to send ...a certificate of her studies and a certificate of her apartment rental agreement. We sent them again..though by this time the next lot of fees for the phone had been taken from the account. This time we received no response. We wrote again, no response. Again...and lo and behold, a reply! This time they wanted the same certificates again, PLUS a certificate to state she is in the military...(she is NOT) and a certificate to say she is in full time EMPLOYMENT in the UK. What???? They already have proof she is a full time STUDENT...quite how she is supposed to find time to also be in the military and full time employment is beyond me.
The story continues, in much the same vein, except that we have had no further responses at all. At one point, in desperation, I even asked them to stop the contract and just charge me the fee for stopping it early...it would have been massively cheaper in the end! However, this too, was ignored. My son spent some 4 hours on the telephone to SFR, and was told to fax all the dossier to them...claiming not to have received any of my previous communications despite having answered some of them and my having the signed receipt slips from La Poste. We sent the fax (cost 20 euros) and called SFR three days later to ensure it had been received. It had, and we were assured of an answer within days. NOTHING . Nothing received at all in the way of any answer. The only activity we could be sure of was the relentless removing of 52 euros from my bank account each month for the use of the phone that has not been used for nearly 6 months now. I am now some 300 euros poorer than I should be, thanks, I believe, to the wilful incompetence of this company. I could have been persuaded, at the beginning, that my own deficiencies in the French language could have caused some of the problems, but the fact that over and over they have simply IGNORED my correspondance points to something else. I am also now aware that I am by no means the only person to receive this sort of treatment.
Now, if this is what SFR call customer service, I am beginning to question my own understanding of the words. I now have an appointment with UFC, who I believe take on such cases with a good level of success. I have informed SFR of this move, and we will see what happens.
Watch this space.
Since experiencing problems with mobile phone company SFR, I have heard of many similar incidents, and so, rather than being very British and keeping quiet about it all, Iam going to have a cathartic rant.
Over five months ago, when my daughter moved back to the UK to study, we were told by SFR that we could stop her mobile phone contract without fee, as the contract allows for this if you move abroad. Dutifully, we sent recorded delivery letters requesting this, and including signed, stamped and dated certificates of her studies and her apartment. We received a letter in reply, requesting us to send ...a certificate of her studies and a certificate of her apartment rental agreement. We sent them again..though by this time the next lot of fees for the phone had been taken from the account. This time we received no response. We wrote again, no response. Again...and lo and behold, a reply! This time they wanted the same certificates again, PLUS a certificate to state she is in the military...(she is NOT) and a certificate to say she is in full time EMPLOYMENT in the UK. What???? They already have proof she is a full time STUDENT...quite how she is supposed to find time to also be in the military and full time employment is beyond me.
The story continues, in much the same vein, except that we have had no further responses at all. At one point, in desperation, I even asked them to stop the contract and just charge me the fee for stopping it early...it would have been massively cheaper in the end! However, this too, was ignored. My son spent some 4 hours on the telephone to SFR, and was told to fax all the dossier to them...claiming not to have received any of my previous communications despite having answered some of them and my having the signed receipt slips from La Poste. We sent the fax (cost 20 euros) and called SFR three days later to ensure it had been received. It had, and we were assured of an answer within days. NOTHING . Nothing received at all in the way of any answer. The only activity we could be sure of was the relentless removing of 52 euros from my bank account each month for the use of the phone that has not been used for nearly 6 months now. I am now some 300 euros poorer than I should be, thanks, I believe, to the wilful incompetence of this company. I could have been persuaded, at the beginning, that my own deficiencies in the French language could have caused some of the problems, but the fact that over and over they have simply IGNORED my correspondance points to something else. I am also now aware that I am by no means the only person to receive this sort of treatment.
Now, if this is what SFR call customer service, I am beginning to question my own understanding of the words. I now have an appointment with UFC, who I believe take on such cases with a good level of success. I have informed SFR of this move, and we will see what happens.
Watch this space.
mardi 18 janvier 2011
New writing needed!
If you have anything to add to this blog, in the form of something you have written...anything, poetry, articles, extracts from a novel....please contact me!
Reviews of good books also welcome...if you'e read something wonderful lately, please tell us about it here!
Reviews of good books also welcome...if you'e read something wonderful lately, please tell us about it here!
Jonny, the Half-Fly pigeon
As I left work at the lycee a few weeks ago, I noticed a crowd of girls around the soft drinks machines in the foyer. OK, this is not an unusual occurrence, but they weren't buying drinks, they were all crying 'Oh le pauvre! le pauvre!'.
My heart sank. I knew there was going to be an injured animal of some sort, and equally, I was certain that it would fall to me to do something about it. Sure enough, there was a pigeon, still young, judging by the yellow baby feathers around his head, desperately trying to hide under the machines. The trouble was, he couldn't walk, and he couldn't fly. He flapped to around six inches above the ground, then crash landed again, dragging a wizened, bent and blackened leg behind him as he skidded painfully across the floor, terrified.
I did a quick recap of the situation. There was a window of 20 minutes for me to get from one teaching job to another, and my home was only 5 minutes away, albeit in the opposite direction. Grabbing the pigeon I stuffed him down my jumper and ran for the car. Once home, I popped him in an old dog kennel, safe from marauding cats and dogs, and drove like James Hunt back to work.
Arriving home again that evening, armed with pigeon corn, I half expected to find him dead, but he was still there, just as scared and just as handicapped.
I showed him to my husband, and one or two friends, some of whom said it would be kinder to kill him then and there as he was obviously deformed from birth and would never make full pigeonhood. I have to admit, I did think they might be right, but I wanted to give this little bird a go...there had to be a reason he chose that moment , when I was walking past, to make his plea for help, didn't there?
So, on we went. Weeks passed, and there was a gradual improvment in Jonny's appearance (I called him Jonny, after the great Jonny Wilkinson, because he could only 'half-fly')so one day I decided to get him out of the kennel and see how his leg was healing.
If I was determined to grab him, Jonny was equally determined that I should not. I lunged, missed, and to both of our astonishments, (can you have a plural astonishment???) he stretched out his wings and flew onto the roof, where he sat in a state of shock. The Half-Fly could fly!
Several more weeks on, Jonny has never looked back, although he shows no sign of wishing to leave. He resides in the smaller of the two barns, having adopted several favourite perches, and on fine, sunny days like today has been, he ventures out for a test flight around the house, and maybe suns himself on the roof of the pergola for a while. His leg is almost healed, pink and straight again, his wings work as they should, and the baby feathers are gone, leaving the glorious iridescent blues, greens and purples around his neck that are so characteristic of pigeons.
So, Jonny stays. He has adopted this as his home, and I enjoy his being there. We have meaningful conversations, wher he puts his head on one side and listend to my rmblings, and he calls out to me when I walk into the barn. There are many who say a pigeon is a flying rat, and should be exterminated, but I have to say, Jonny is a delightful creature, and I am quite proud of my part in his rescue. Long may he stay, and long may he continue to avoid the cats, dogs and birds of prey that are the bane of a pigeon's existence. We have a new family member!
My heart sank. I knew there was going to be an injured animal of some sort, and equally, I was certain that it would fall to me to do something about it. Sure enough, there was a pigeon, still young, judging by the yellow baby feathers around his head, desperately trying to hide under the machines. The trouble was, he couldn't walk, and he couldn't fly. He flapped to around six inches above the ground, then crash landed again, dragging a wizened, bent and blackened leg behind him as he skidded painfully across the floor, terrified.
I did a quick recap of the situation. There was a window of 20 minutes for me to get from one teaching job to another, and my home was only 5 minutes away, albeit in the opposite direction. Grabbing the pigeon I stuffed him down my jumper and ran for the car. Once home, I popped him in an old dog kennel, safe from marauding cats and dogs, and drove like James Hunt back to work.
Arriving home again that evening, armed with pigeon corn, I half expected to find him dead, but he was still there, just as scared and just as handicapped.
I showed him to my husband, and one or two friends, some of whom said it would be kinder to kill him then and there as he was obviously deformed from birth and would never make full pigeonhood. I have to admit, I did think they might be right, but I wanted to give this little bird a go...there had to be a reason he chose that moment , when I was walking past, to make his plea for help, didn't there?
So, on we went. Weeks passed, and there was a gradual improvment in Jonny's appearance (I called him Jonny, after the great Jonny Wilkinson, because he could only 'half-fly')so one day I decided to get him out of the kennel and see how his leg was healing.
If I was determined to grab him, Jonny was equally determined that I should not. I lunged, missed, and to both of our astonishments, (can you have a plural astonishment???) he stretched out his wings and flew onto the roof, where he sat in a state of shock. The Half-Fly could fly!
Several more weeks on, Jonny has never looked back, although he shows no sign of wishing to leave. He resides in the smaller of the two barns, having adopted several favourite perches, and on fine, sunny days like today has been, he ventures out for a test flight around the house, and maybe suns himself on the roof of the pergola for a while. His leg is almost healed, pink and straight again, his wings work as they should, and the baby feathers are gone, leaving the glorious iridescent blues, greens and purples around his neck that are so characteristic of pigeons.
So, Jonny stays. He has adopted this as his home, and I enjoy his being there. We have meaningful conversations, wher he puts his head on one side and listend to my rmblings, and he calls out to me when I walk into the barn. There are many who say a pigeon is a flying rat, and should be exterminated, but I have to say, Jonny is a delightful creature, and I am quite proud of my part in his rescue. Long may he stay, and long may he continue to avoid the cats, dogs and birds of prey that are the bane of a pigeon's existence. We have a new family member!
samedi 15 janvier 2011
Squeak
Mice. Is anyone else having a problem with mice this year? They seem to be everywhere, making a take over bid for domination in my house. I opened my underwear drawer this morning, only to find a mouse happily snoozing among my frillies. The other day, I grabbed an old dressing gown to sling on after my bath, and settled down to work at the computer. After quite some time, and I mean, quite some time, I felt something move on my back...thinking it was a spider I slung the dressing gown to the floor and watched in amazement as a mouse shot out! I don't know who was more shocked, the mouse or I!
Now, the dilemma is this. I know I can't really share my home with thousands of mice. It's unhygenic, for one thing, and for another, the litttle blighters are eating the wires inside the electrical appliances which is a fire risk as well as not really good for the intended function of the appliances. But...they are so damned cute! (If only they didn't poo...) I deplore killing things at the best of times, preferring to rescue drowning spiders from the swimming pool than watch them struggle, so with something as utterly adorable as a mouse, I am a lost cause. The cats...all four of them, should really be doing the job out of sight, I suppose...but the cats have now seen so many mice that they are, frankly, bored. They look up as one scurries by, and calmly mutter;
'Oh, another mouse. Heigh ho.'
Traps are out, as they so often don't kill immediately, which I just couldn't bear, poison is no good on a number of counts, not least the cruelty angle or that the other animals could accidentally ingest some. I have tried the humane traps, but the mice either make their excuses and leave somehow having enjoyed the food, or return with the new mates they have met in the surrounding fields where I have emptied the traps. ('Hey, lads, we know a great hotel...' You get the picture?) I have also tried those little machines that emit a noise mice are supposed to abhor...but having seen a small group partying merrily on top of the very machine one evening, I have lost faith. I think they saw it as a mouse disco...music provided.
Is there another option? Does anyone have a number for the Pied Piper? Or, maybe, Derren Brown could brainwash them into leaving? Suggestions on a postcard please....
Now, the dilemma is this. I know I can't really share my home with thousands of mice. It's unhygenic, for one thing, and for another, the litttle blighters are eating the wires inside the electrical appliances which is a fire risk as well as not really good for the intended function of the appliances. But...they are so damned cute! (If only they didn't poo...) I deplore killing things at the best of times, preferring to rescue drowning spiders from the swimming pool than watch them struggle, so with something as utterly adorable as a mouse, I am a lost cause. The cats...all four of them, should really be doing the job out of sight, I suppose...but the cats have now seen so many mice that they are, frankly, bored. They look up as one scurries by, and calmly mutter;
'Oh, another mouse. Heigh ho.'
Traps are out, as they so often don't kill immediately, which I just couldn't bear, poison is no good on a number of counts, not least the cruelty angle or that the other animals could accidentally ingest some. I have tried the humane traps, but the mice either make their excuses and leave somehow having enjoyed the food, or return with the new mates they have met in the surrounding fields where I have emptied the traps. ('Hey, lads, we know a great hotel...' You get the picture?) I have also tried those little machines that emit a noise mice are supposed to abhor...but having seen a small group partying merrily on top of the very machine one evening, I have lost faith. I think they saw it as a mouse disco...music provided.
Is there another option? Does anyone have a number for the Pied Piper? Or, maybe, Derren Brown could brainwash them into leaving? Suggestions on a postcard please....
vendredi 14 janvier 2011
S.A.D.
Today is one of those winter days that should happen much more often. Bright, sunny, clear blue sky and a warmth already coming through that means I shall be able to sit outside at lunchtime. Jonny the pet pigeon will probably risk a short flight around the house, the cats and dogs will potter out to lie in the grass and the mud in the horses' field might ease up a little. Who knows, the washing, which has been on the line for five days, might even dry!
The older I get, the more I hate winter. To be even more exact, the more I hate this period of winter that stretches from New Year to March, or even April, when at last we can begin to be assured that the majority of days will be pleasant again. Seasonal Affective Disorder? Possibly, although I think it is just another fancy label for something that many of us feel. Sunshine lifts the spirits, the days are blessed with more light at both ends, the world seems to have hope again. I need more of it. I don't need an artifical light box, I need real sunshine. Seems churlish to whinge, when people in Australia, Brazil and other unfortunate places are suffering from terrible floods, so I apologise...but, if you are listening, weather God...we ALL need more sunshine!
The older I get, the more I hate winter. To be even more exact, the more I hate this period of winter that stretches from New Year to March, or even April, when at last we can begin to be assured that the majority of days will be pleasant again. Seasonal Affective Disorder? Possibly, although I think it is just another fancy label for something that many of us feel. Sunshine lifts the spirits, the days are blessed with more light at both ends, the world seems to have hope again. I need more of it. I don't need an artifical light box, I need real sunshine. Seems churlish to whinge, when people in Australia, Brazil and other unfortunate places are suffering from terrible floods, so I apologise...but, if you are listening, weather God...we ALL need more sunshine!
jeudi 13 janvier 2011
Review Web of Lies
New author Sarah Tate brings a tale of domestic horror to the table with her first book, Web of Lies. Not a story of wife beating, but one of an abuse that is, perhaps, even more insidious, even more shocking.
Unputdownable, the book tells of the effects of becoming involved with a man who is a narcissist. At first charming and romantic, Bill woos the young Sarah with a courtship beyond her wildest dreams, but after she agrees to marry him, his true nature and extreme narcissism begins to show, resulting in an unstoppable chain of disasters that leave Sarah and her children struggling to survive.
If you've never heard of Narcissistic Syndrome, read this book. If you identify with the plight of a young wife and mother, stuck in an intolerable situation, read this book. If you want to pick up a book that will keep you reading deep into the night and won't let go until you have turned the very last page...read this book.
Unputdownable, the book tells of the effects of becoming involved with a man who is a narcissist. At first charming and romantic, Bill woos the young Sarah with a courtship beyond her wildest dreams, but after she agrees to marry him, his true nature and extreme narcissism begins to show, resulting in an unstoppable chain of disasters that leave Sarah and her children struggling to survive.
If you've never heard of Narcissistic Syndrome, read this book. If you identify with the plight of a young wife and mother, stuck in an intolerable situation, read this book. If you want to pick up a book that will keep you reading deep into the night and won't let go until you have turned the very last page...read this book.
Review : A Perfect Circle, by Susie Kelly.
Being a firm fan of this author, whose wit, warmth and honesty have captivated me from the first word of her first book, I embarked alongside her (in spirit only, through the pages of A Perfect Circle) with great expctations upon this epic voyage around France.
I was not disappointed. In addition to the intelligent charm of Ms Kelly's writing, the book was painstakingly researched, a mine of fascinating information about France and frequently hilarious to boot!
Pack it in your suitcase if you are going on holiday, especially if you are going to France. Or curl up in your favourite armchair on a cold winter's night and let A Perfect Circle whirl you round the perimeter of France, in a camper van and in the company of two delightfully mischieveous dogs. You won't regret it...and you won't forget it either!
I was not disappointed. In addition to the intelligent charm of Ms Kelly's writing, the book was painstakingly researched, a mine of fascinating information about France and frequently hilarious to boot!
Pack it in your suitcase if you are going on holiday, especially if you are going to France. Or curl up in your favourite armchair on a cold winter's night and let A Perfect Circle whirl you round the perimeter of France, in a camper van and in the company of two delightfully mischieveous dogs. You won't regret it...and you won't forget it either!
A Story begins...extract
Four Queens and a Joker
The car is coming towards me too fast, far too fast. The driver’s face is hard to see, through the slightly tinted glass of the windscreen, but I have the distinct impression that she is smiling.
She’ll see me in a minute, logic tells me, but the approaching car seems set on a collision course. Her face is clearer now, and in the moment before I realise she is driving directly at me, I can see her eyes, locked on mine, and yes, she is smiling beatifically.
Adrenalin kicks in. Wrenching the wheel violently to the left, tyres screaming, I swerve across the opposite carriageway, but it’s too late.
The noise that metal makes when tearing apart is one that will live in my nightmares forever. It’s all too fast, now, a cacophony of sound, sickening blows to body and head, branches, grass, sky and bits of car flying past my eyes in a seemingly never ending sequence of twists and tumbles that must be happening to somebody, somewhere, although I can’t quite grasp that it is happening to me. All thoughts of what is happening to the other car, the other driver, are blown from my mind in a frantic but useless effort to protect myself. I am conscious of a sudden pressure on my chest, my face, as the airbag explodes into action, and now there is nothing to do but wait, resign myself to whatever will happen when what is left of my car, and myself, finally breaks this crazy cycle of spinning and tumbling into oblivion.
Chapter one
The Deal.
Five cards dealt, spread out on the table. Turn them over, one at a time. Incredibly, they are:The Queen of Spades.The Queen of Diamonds.The Queen of Clubs.The Queen of Hearts. And...the Joker.
Their meaning, at this point, is unclear, but as time rolls on, the Queens (one married, one divorced, one spinster, one widow) will lock crowns in a battle for supremacy as fierce as any power struggle from history, a no holds barred, no quarter given, no rules adhered to fight from which one, or perhaps even none, may emerge triumphant leaving the others bruised and bloody to crawl away to lick their wounds.
And the Joker? What is his role in this? To make sense of the strange card, the card that is excluded from many card games because it is too unpredictable, too hard to pin down, we need to understand the nature of the Joker. What is the saying? 'Joker's wild'....and indeed, he is. Not savage wild, of course, for our Joker is no figure of terror, no macho posing muscle bound aggressor, but rather he is all things to all women, a chameleon like figure whose ever changing colours and form can leave one mesmerised and ultimately, hopelessly confused. A well played Joker can win the game, but this card needs to be understood, identified, its powers controlled and its role clearly defined. A Joker who has no understanding of his own reality or his effect on the other cards on the table is a frightening proposition indeed. Wild and changeable he may be, to the advantage of some and the demise of others, but the Joker has to be able to control the game, to be fully aware of the effect of his position on the pack. What kind of Joker do we have on our table? Time will tell.
Book Reviews
If the purpose of this blog is to share the pleasure of reading, reviews and comments on existing books and other writing are very much a part of it. Some of my reviews can be found on Amazon.com and also on Barnes and Noble. Reviews by Joanna Simm.
Future reviews will also be posted here.
If you have read something inspirational, entertaining or even spectacularly not those things, please let me know.
Future reviews will also be posted here.
If you have read something inspirational, entertaining or even spectacularly not those things, please let me know.
An Ex Pat Life
An Ex Pat Life
(Also published on Women's Thoughts @ women'sthoughts.co.uk)Speaking in Tongues.
Joanna Simm
It’s hardly a new idea, moving to live in another country, as thanks, in part, to a steady diet in recent years of lifestyle programmes like ‘A Place in the Sun’, and ‘No Going Back’, rather a lot of Brits have upped sticks and left good old Blighty for a new life in another land. Most of us have headed off for sunnier climes, to some degree or another, and indeed, seeking better weather is an oft cited reason for the move. There’s more than just the weather to it all, though, and in spite of the sunshine, things can be a little more complicated than we all bargained for when packing up those suitcases and dreaming of long, hot days by a pool.
It depends where you go, of course, but a big consideration in popular European destinations like France, Spain, Italy and Portugal is the language. When I moved to France in 2004, I was convinced that, although my French amounted at that point to no more than a smattering of unconnected words, I would be ‘getting by’ in a matter of ‘months’, and pretty competent within a year. HA! If only. For a start, phrases such as ‘the pen of my aunt’, ‘the cat is black’ and ‘where is the toilet’ actually only get you so far when you are living in a country full of French speakers. OK, so ‘Where is the toilet’ can be useful, but it has its limitations as a conversational gambit. We found ourselves being pretty much silent for a year, in public at least, pointing at items we wished to buy, and offering blank looks when spoken to unexpectedly. The strong southern accent here didn’t help much either. In the Languedoc, where we live, French is NOTHING like the rather tidy and elegant language we were taught in school. We learnt to say ‘van’ for ‘vin’, and ‘pan’ for ‘pain’ (respectively wine and bread), but down here the sounds are ‘veng’ and peng’. I once spent around fifteen minutes in a bakery trying to buy a ‘pain au chocolat’, attempting every possible tongue twist on the words to make my desire for a flaky chocolate pastry understood. I got there eventually, after hearing another customer arrive and ask for exactly what I wanted, shamelessly copying, whereupon the woman in the shop gave me a look as if to say, ‘Well, if that’s what you wanted why the hell didn’t you ask for it in the first place?’
Our two youngest children, who made the move with us at the ages of 12 and 13, spent a horrible first year in school, condemned to sit, day after day, from 8 ‘til 5 listening to a torrent of what was to them, complete gobbledegook. My husband, never a linguist even in his Mother Tongue (Geordie!), found his own way to cope. I remember one evening, soon after our arrival, when he had met a chap in a shop who had, inexplicably, followed him home to have a beer. My husband had no recollection of inviting this man, who was a little odd, but as he said, who knows what he might have said in an attempt at chatting with a vocabulary limited to about six words? Keen to be sociable, he offered the man a beer, which he drank with relish, immediately requesting another. Unable to express a need to get on with life, my husband found himself dispensing (and, I must admit, also drinking) two crates of beer, while discussing the ways of the world, as men do in these liquid fuelled situations. It wasn’t, however, quite that easy.
Our new French friend spoke at the rate of a million words a minute, while my husband gamely replied with his six favourite (and only) French words. There was, though, a limit to how many times he could introduce the word ‘bois’ (wood), ‘toilettes’ (self evident!), ‘bière (beer), ‘chien’ (dog), ‘chat’ (cat) and ‘Bonjour’ into a conversation which appeared to be about motorbikes. The conversation faltered, unsurprisingly. As more and more beer vanished, though, the form of the discourse altered completely. My husband reverted to English (or as near to it as a Geordie can get!) while our new friend continued with high speed French, but they began to replace words with noises, producing the effect of a story told to the accompaniment of a Fisher Price child’s toy farmyard. From my bedroom window (to where I had retreated, wisely, I felt) it made a very amusing pantomime, going something like this:‘So, I was riding the bike at 100 miles an hour…brrrrmmmmm…brrrrmmmm…whing! Whing! .when I crashed…BANG!.BANG! BOOM!’ ‘Oui! C’est comme ça pour moi aussi! Boom Boom Boom! Et voila! Mais, il y a un vache dans le champ, qui a dit’ Mooooo, Moooo…’
You get the idea?
Slowly, the words disappeared altogether, leaving a pantomime of bizarre noises. It seemed to keep them both happy, although I doubt that either of them, had a clue what they had been discussing after.
Six years on, and I am happy to say that both children (children? At 18 and 19 that is probably not quite right!) are fluent French speakers, now returned to University in England. Rob and I, however, haven’t quite reached that state of grace. We are now able to converse with friends (who speak slowly and listen sympathetically for out strange pronunciation!), cope in familiar situations and just about make sense of our post (though not always!) but can still be utterly bemused by much of what is going on around us. Sad to admit, most of the other ex pats seem to have similar difficulties. What is it about we Brits (and in particular, the English) that makes it so hard for us to learn another tongue?
I can only leave you with the old joke:
‘What do you call a person who can speak two languages? Bi-lingual.
Three languages? Tri lingual.
More languages? Multi Lingual.
And what do you call a person who can only speak one language?
English.
Our French friends seem to find this one deeply amusing, I can’t think why!
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Joanna Simm
It’s hardly a new idea, moving to live in another country, as thanks, in part, to a steady diet in recent years of lifestyle programmes like ‘A Place in the Sun’, and ‘No Going Back’, rather a lot of Brits have upped sticks and left good old Blighty for a new life in another land. Most of us have headed off for sunnier climes, to some degree or another, and indeed, seeking better weather is an oft cited reason for the move. There’s more than just the weather to it all, though, and in spite of the sunshine, things can be a little more complicated than we all bargained for when packing up those suitcases and dreaming of long, hot days by a pool.
It depends where you go, of course, but a big consideration in popular European destinations like France, Spain, Italy and Portugal is the language. When I moved to France in 2004, I was convinced that, although my French amounted at that point to no more than a smattering of unconnected words, I would be ‘getting by’ in a matter of ‘months’, and pretty competent within a year. HA! If only. For a start, phrases such as ‘the pen of my aunt’, ‘the cat is black’ and ‘where is the toilet’ actually only get you so far when you are living in a country full of French speakers. OK, so ‘Where is the toilet’ can be useful, but it has its limitations as a conversational gambit. We found ourselves being pretty much silent for a year, in public at least, pointing at items we wished to buy, and offering blank looks when spoken to unexpectedly. The strong southern accent here didn’t help much either. In the Languedoc, where we live, French is NOTHING like the rather tidy and elegant language we were taught in school. We learnt to say ‘van’ for ‘vin’, and ‘pan’ for ‘pain’ (respectively wine and bread), but down here the sounds are ‘veng’ and peng’. I once spent around fifteen minutes in a bakery trying to buy a ‘pain au chocolat’, attempting every possible tongue twist on the words to make my desire for a flaky chocolate pastry understood. I got there eventually, after hearing another customer arrive and ask for exactly what I wanted, shamelessly copying, whereupon the woman in the shop gave me a look as if to say, ‘Well, if that’s what you wanted why the hell didn’t you ask for it in the first place?’
Our two youngest children, who made the move with us at the ages of 12 and 13, spent a horrible first year in school, condemned to sit, day after day, from 8 ‘til 5 listening to a torrent of what was to them, complete gobbledegook. My husband, never a linguist even in his Mother Tongue (Geordie!), found his own way to cope. I remember one evening, soon after our arrival, when he had met a chap in a shop who had, inexplicably, followed him home to have a beer. My husband had no recollection of inviting this man, who was a little odd, but as he said, who knows what he might have said in an attempt at chatting with a vocabulary limited to about six words? Keen to be sociable, he offered the man a beer, which he drank with relish, immediately requesting another. Unable to express a need to get on with life, my husband found himself dispensing (and, I must admit, also drinking) two crates of beer, while discussing the ways of the world, as men do in these liquid fuelled situations. It wasn’t, however, quite that easy.
Our new French friend spoke at the rate of a million words a minute, while my husband gamely replied with his six favourite (and only) French words. There was, though, a limit to how many times he could introduce the word ‘bois’ (wood), ‘toilettes’ (self evident!), ‘bière (beer), ‘chien’ (dog), ‘chat’ (cat) and ‘Bonjour’ into a conversation which appeared to be about motorbikes. The conversation faltered, unsurprisingly. As more and more beer vanished, though, the form of the discourse altered completely. My husband reverted to English (or as near to it as a Geordie can get!) while our new friend continued with high speed French, but they began to replace words with noises, producing the effect of a story told to the accompaniment of a Fisher Price child’s toy farmyard. From my bedroom window (to where I had retreated, wisely, I felt) it made a very amusing pantomime, going something like this:‘So, I was riding the bike at 100 miles an hour…brrrrmmmmm…brrrrmmmm…whing! Whing! .when I crashed…BANG!.BANG! BOOM!’ ‘Oui! C’est comme ça pour moi aussi! Boom Boom Boom! Et voila! Mais, il y a un vache dans le champ, qui a dit’ Mooooo, Moooo…’
You get the idea?
Slowly, the words disappeared altogether, leaving a pantomime of bizarre noises. It seemed to keep them both happy, although I doubt that either of them, had a clue what they had been discussing after.
Six years on, and I am happy to say that both children (children? At 18 and 19 that is probably not quite right!) are fluent French speakers, now returned to University in England. Rob and I, however, haven’t quite reached that state of grace. We are now able to converse with friends (who speak slowly and listen sympathetically for out strange pronunciation!), cope in familiar situations and just about make sense of our post (though not always!) but can still be utterly bemused by much of what is going on around us. Sad to admit, most of the other ex pats seem to have similar difficulties. What is it about we Brits (and in particular, the English) that makes it so hard for us to learn another tongue?
I can only leave you with the old joke:
‘What do you call a person who can speak two languages? Bi-lingual.
Three languages? Tri lingual.
More languages? Multi Lingual.
And what do you call a person who can only speak one language?
English.
Our French friends seem to find this one deeply amusing, I can’t think why!
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The purpose of this blog is to share comments, reviews and new writing with anyone who loves books, reading and writing ...wherever they may be! I have enjoyed reading all of my life, and it remains one of my greatest pleasures. It is an escape, an education, a source of information and always a joy.
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The purpose of this blog is to share comments, reviews and new writing with anyone who loves books, reading and writing ...wherever they may be! I have enjoyed reading all of my life, and it remains one of my greatest pleasures. It is an escape, an education, a source of information and always a joy.
I am, therefore, a reader, but also a writer. From time to time I will post articles or extracts from something I have written, and invite your comments. You are very welcome to add links to your work in the comments. New writing is always exciting! Equally, if you have read something you want to tell the world about, please do so here. If you have any comments, reviews, links to extracts of something you have written or simply something to say connected to reading, please join in.
The Bookworm Blog is for all of you...pop in and say Hello.
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