Friday, 27 April 2007

Bl**dy nerve!

Last week I was asked to proofread the text and audio scripts of a new BBC French language course. The last time I undertook such work (for a well-publicised BBC Two series that turned out to be a disaster) the dialogues had already been recorded by the time the typescripts were sent to me (you can imagine my dismay). This time, things are being done in the right order and with a bit of luck the end result won’t make anyone cringe. Of course, it took longer than I was told it would (five hours more, in fact, than I was able to charge for, because – as usual – the project manager underestimated the time, and beggars.... see previous post).

What amazed and concerned me was that this language course was written, like the previous one, by someone who has been teaching French for donkey’s years yet still makes basic mistakes. Here’s a – far from exhaustive – list I compiled as I went along:

* du and de; des and de; c'est and il/elle est; dans le and au are not interchangeable and are subject to precise rules.
* the adjective that follows c’est is always masculine singular.
* ‘After ten minutes’ is not après dix minutes but au bout de dix minutes.
* Tu penses? is not English; the correct verb is croire: Tu crois?.
* les soirs, elle va... is a literal – and incorrect – translation for ‘in the evenings, she goes...’; it’s le soir, elle va...
* depending on context, ‘next’ is prochain or suivant (they’re not interchangeable either).

* In the past tense, se faire mal (to hurt oneself) goes like this: je me suis fait mal, tu t’es fait mal, il/elle s’est fait mal, nous nous sommes fait mal, vous vous êtes fait mal, ils/elles se sont fait mal. Yes, that's it, fait is invariable. Elle s’est faite mal hurts me a lot. LOL!

* Passer
(to pass) is only followed by a direct object in passer le temps, passer un examen, otherwise it’s passer devant. In giving directions, you say, ‘Vous passez devant l’église...’ not ‘Vous passez l’église...’

* proper names never take an ‘s’ in the plural – except names of dynasties: les Bourbons.
* The French love commas and use them much more liberally than the Anglo-Saxons.

Most bits of very simple French text written to illustrate specific grammar rules sounded clumsy and were often wrong.

What makes someone whose French is not 100% perfect think they can produce such a course? Who commissions them? Would it occur to me to write an English language course, even though I am just as qualified as those writers to teach English? Erm, no. The only foolproof way for such material to be up to scratch would be for it to be written by two native speakers – one for each language.

Obviously, if the author had been correct all through, I would have missed out on a job. I should be grateful, really. Hmm...

Slap!

Wednesday, 18 April 2007

I’m so glad

Apparently, average earnings have grown like crazy in the past three years. Since I haven’t been able to increase my freelance rates for four years... grrr!

Hasn’t the cost of living gone up for me too in the meantime?

Sunday, 15 April 2007

MOO!

















No Slap today: it’s sunny and very warm and I haven’t got the energy.

Anyway, I’m in love. With these MOO cards. Well, wouldn’t you be? Aren’t they just the most adorable things you’ve ever seen? They are so tiny!

The MOOs above are business cards – but only because my partner and I put our details on the back. You can have whatever you like printed on them.

The London Book Fair is on for three days from tomorrow. We both need to tout for work. These little cuties will make it a little bit less unpleasant than it might otherwise be.

You would give us a job in return for one of these, wouldn’t you?

Friday, 6 April 2007

The bad old days

The picture above was not taken in the 19th century; it was taken yesterday – in the Cromwell Road. I was on my way to my favourite hospital. (As I always say, ‘What was good enough for General Pinochet is good enough for me.’ LOL!) I’ve been seeing this sign for years – every time I have a check-up – and it shocks me every time. I’ve always wanted to photograph it but usually when I go to the Cromwell the last thing on my mind is making sure I have my camera with me. Anyway, yesterday I happened to carry it in my bag and it only took a moment to make a record of that leftover of the past, when this kind of segregation was the norm; when there were other signs in windows of boarding houses that read, ‘No Jews, no Irish, no dogs’ (in whatever order).

I wish I could say that the sign is just there because it looks quaint but I can’t swear it is. The Cromwell Road is a posh area and I have a feeling it’s there because it still serves a purpose.

Slap!

Sunday, 1 April 2007

Guest Slapper of the Month XV

My April Guest Slapper let me down yesterday. Maybe she thought it was a joke. I frantically looked around for a replacement and my gaze fell on Lulu, who, I knew, had lots to say about those controversial ID cards. Here’s her last-minute Slap. I will be eternally grateful to her. Yes, I will.

I Don’t Want to be an April Fool.

This is a slap that was never going to be a slap. In fact, for the past year or two, ever since it was first mentioned, I have always thought I would slap the people who were against the idea, for being so British and insular.

But recently I’ve changed my mind.

I’m talking about ID cards. Specifically, the introduction of them in the UK.

In the past months of public discussions, I always used to accept the argument that, if you had any reservations about carrying an ID card, it meant you had something to hide. That law-abiding citizens had nothing to fear from them, and the only reason you might have to be unwilling to prove who you were to anyone who asked you would be a guilty one. They have had them in France, a perfectly civilised democratic country, for tens of years, I would add, and no one makes a fuss there. Anyway, what’s the difference between a driving licence or passport and an ID card?

But things I’ve read, and seen, recently have really undermined my certainty. And no, it’s not about the £88 or whatever it is we are to be charged for the privilege of getting one.

First, as a middle-class, middle-aged white woman, I have to accept that the likelihood of my ID card being demanded for no particular reason by a passing policeman on my way to Tesco is minimal. That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be concerned about the extra hassle it will cause a young Asian man who’s not wearing a suit and tie – every survey shows the UK police force suffer from ‘institutional racism’, and when doing jury service I saw to my dismay how ‘stop and search’ rights were part of the everyday lives of black kids.

Secondly, the ‘nothing to hide’ argument doesn’t work when taken to its extreme. I am not a terrorist or a drug dealer, but that really, really doesn’t mean I want the intelligence services listening in on my phone line or scanning my e-mail.

Thirdly, the belief that the innocent will have no problems with ID cards assumes that the computer system set up to administer them will be pretty much faultless. And there is simply no British system in the last ten years that hasn’t caused incredible mishaps and misunderstandings and trouble for ordinary people. The new NHS patient-linking data system has been abandoned, as has the computerised system for finding junior doctors a job. You can’t book a train journey without having to sort through up to 36 different prices for the same route, from £12 to £250. The congestion charging system in London sends the bailiffs out to repossess the property of non-fine-payers who in fact had their car stolen and trashed 8 years previously and police reports prove it. And they have written five times with documentary evidence of that fact but no actual person with common sense ever looks at the letters. The child support agency endlessly pursues people who happen to have the same name but live 200 miles away from real absentee fathers, while single mothers struggle to pay their bills. The new passport system, when installed, resulted in daily nine-hour queues down the street for passports for nearly a year before its ‘teething problems’ were resolved. Credit reference agencies blacklist you because someone who lived in your house five years ago didn’t pay their mobile phone bill, even though they are a married man called Robert Black and you are a single woman called Susan White. My GP tells me to pester the hospital myself for my test results because the hospital computer will never connect up patient with GP once you’ve left the building, and she, she says, cannot possibly remember to chase my results for me because she has 3,000 people to think about. The tax office changes its address without informing you, and when you send in your tax return by overnight signed-for mail in plenty of time, it takes five days because they have to forward it on from Cornwall to Newcastle, and then they fine you for being late. Incompetence rules every administrative system, because the people entering working life now and for the past 15 years have received an education that would shame a rogue African state in the middle of a civil war, and cannot actually form a sentence or add two sums.

Fourthly, and most importantly, the ‘ID cards are innocent for innocent people’ argument totally and entirely depends upon there always being a democratic government in place, with a reasonable view on human rights and privacies, to whom one can apply peacefully and democratically to change unfair laws, and whose administrative wings – the police, social services, the courts, the tax office, the armed forces – remain under its control and basically benign. We are incredibly complacent about this in Britain – we don’t bother going to vote, we don’t protest, we sleepwalk our way into the erosion of rights, we’re scared to speak up and offend anyone or stand out from the crowd. We really assume that the situation in Europe today (well, of 20 years ago, actually) – of the West, and late 20th-century western democracy, being forever in charge of the thinking world and hopefully even in the ascendancy – will be the status quo forever. But history does not back this up, and nor do recent events. This struck me at the theatre last week, watching Athol Fugard’s play Sizwe Banzi is Dead, which is about the monstrous Kafkaesque hoops a man – a black man, of course – is made to jump through simply to be allowed to leave his home town, get a job somewhere else and send money home to his wife and children. It’s the tiniest leap – it would take the tiniest event in history (like 9/11) or a simple change of government – to instantly, or, even worse, gradually and sneakily, turn ID cards into a tool for population control in the name of ‘national security’. All that even an elected government has to do is announce ‘special circumstances’ and they can detain people for three months without charge (in the UK, or goodness knows how long in Guantanamo). A move to make people stay in or go back to the city where they were born would be the next step – it’s been a motif throughout history, in communist states, in Russia, right back to the time of Herod. There doesn’t even have to be a pressing reason, it might just strike a government minister as less trouble that way.

And there is a difference between the UK and, say, France. France has a written code or constitution dating back to Napoleon. It enshrines the separation of Church and State, so no religious fundamentalist leader can worm his way into power and change the rules from within. No one politician, in fact, can ever trespass beyond agreed limits. And the French people are ever alert to any erosion of their liberties and take to the streets the minute they are threatened.

So now I’m most certainly slapping ID cards, with all the force I can muster. Is there anyone out there who can change my mind back again, and convince me I’ve nothing to worry about?

Friday, 30 March 2007

We should have a choice, non?

Yesterday I discovered to my dismay that all the waste pipes in my kitchen and bathroom were completely blocked. No, but completely. I couldn’t run water in the sink, washbasin or bath for one second. In this wonderful flat of mine, all the water ends up in the same pipes. (What idiot devised this, back in the 1930s, that’s what I want to know.) I couldn’t understand how my pipes could go from totally clear to 100% clogged up in the space of one day – they were perfectly fine the day before, but I had to do something about it.

In my experience, the only thing that really works when this happens is Mr Muscle Sink & Plughole Unblocker (it’s also the safest, I believe, since it doesn’t harden in the drains). Off I went to my local Tesco to buy some of the stuff. They had a ‘3 for 2’ offer so I came back lugging three bottles of the miracle product (you can’t be too careful, can you?).

Then came the fun part: I got hold of one Mr Muscle and tried to unscrew its cap (no smutty jokes here, please). No could do. It was childproof. I pushed and turned and pushed harder and turned harder, in vain. OK, I had two more chances to succeed. I grabbed another bottle… Nope! Finally, the third Mr Muscle cap yielded to my will. Phew! I poured the gooey liquid through the plughole and let it do its business overnight.

Reader, it worked.

But, what I want to know (apart from who devised the drain system in my building, of course) is why we who are not children, we who do not have any children in our homes, we who can tell the difference between a bottle of Volvic and a bottle of hydrochloride what’s-it, why we have to buy these bottles with childproof caps? I’m little but I have extremely strong hands (ask anyone who’s had their back massaged by me, or, even better, ask Linda Pilkington, the owner of Ormonde Jayne: her hand is probably still smarting from being crushed in mine – I was trying to be friendly, LOL!) and what I can’t open... I was going to say, isn’t worth opening, well, no, but you know what I mean. I understand the need for childproof caps but why can’t we buy bottles, etc. with ordinary caps as well ? I think I know why but I’m asking anyway.

And what about older people with arthritis? (Actually I have a touch of it in my left hand at the moment, but I’m right-handed so it didn’t have a part in my inability to open those bottles.) What if you’re an arthritic person whose pipes are blocked or who wants to take some vitamins so they can live a little longer and bother everyone else with their special requirements, like ‘easy to open containers’? What about them, then?

Slap!

Wednesday, 28 March 2007

Questions

How long before Iran promises to wipe Britain off the map, do you think?

Or isn't Britain such a thorn in its side?

Update (29 March): It's getting there... How unreasonable of Britain to make such a ‘fuss’ about nothing! Tut-tut! (Or should it be ‘Slap’?)

Wednesday, 21 March 2007

For God’s sake!

Did you know that you don’t have to be a Christian to say a prayer talking about ‘crosses’ and ‘churches’? No, neither did I. And did you know that suggesting that Jews might not be comfortable saying such a prayer is being as intolerant as the worst fundamentalist? No, neither did I.

‘Crosses’ and ‘churches’ are Christian symbols – exclusively. They have no place in Jewish religious rituals (I can only speak as Jew in this instance). Many Jews would find mentioning those words in a prayer abhorrent. How could they forget that thousands of other Jews were murdered in the name of the Church, by hordes of devout Christian brandishing crosses? The Christian religion is not universal (it might have wanted to be, once upon a time, but it didn’t manage it, quite). There are prayers that mention god without being so specific; those are fine.

During the war, trying to escape from the Gestapo in la France profonde, my mother was hired as a companion by an old woman, who had portraits of Hitler and Pétain above her bed (could there be a safer place to take refuge in?). Every night, on her knee, the woman prayed God for them. My mother was trying to ‘pass’ as a Christian: she had dyed her hair blonde; she wore a cross and went to church. She was forced to: her life was at stake. She played that difficult role for a few months, until the woman, who was very kind to her and completely unaware of her real identity, gave her away – unwittingly – to a member of the French milice. Luckily, my mother had heard them talking and she left at the earliest opportunity.

I am not a religious Jew, but I would only consider wearing a cross if my life depended on it. As for churches, I like visiting them, for their beauty, their architecture, their art, and I have attended the odd wedding/funeral in them, but I would not worship there.

I don’t care what you believe; just don’t impose your beliefs or your religious symbols on me. And don’t accuse me of intolerance when I object to your trying to do so.

Sunday, 18 March 2007

Supermarket etiquette

Forget about foreign languages, what kids need to learn from an early age is how to shop in supermarkets. We acquire that skill by watching other people, mostly our mummies; unfortunately these days women are as bad at it as men so young shoppers don’t have any role models and Supermarket Rage is a very common occurrence.

Don’t leave your basket or trolley right bang in the middle of the floor! When did this habit start? When did it become OK to block everybody else's way because one is too lazy to carry one's basket to where the pomegranate-juice cartons live? No one would leave their bags unattended in the middle of the pavement while they went into a shop so why do it in a supermarket?

If it says ‘Less than 10 items’ (by the way, resist the urge to tell the manager it should be ‘fewer’: he’s not interested), do not turn up in the queue with a trolley full to the brim and then smile apologetically to the people behind you: it won’t wash.

Don’t leave the stuff you want to buy on the belt while you go off to get an item you forgot to pick up earlier? It's a neat trick, isn't it? You reserve your place in the queue and no one can move your groceries aside without feeling like a louse.

When the cashier begins to check out your purchases, don’t stand there flirting with them or nattering into your mobile; unless you’re very old or suffering from some handicap and are therefore slower than an able-bodied person, don’t wait until you’ve paid, start bagging the stuff now, otherwise the next person will huff and puff and probably curse you to the twelfth generation for keeping them waiting.

Don’t act surprised when the cashier requests money from you. What did you expect? Did you think it was Free Food Day and you wouldn’t have to fork out for your over-packaged cook-chill meals? Hand in your card or cash and then resume packing so by the time they give you your change or ask you to key in your PIN you will have finished and no time will have been wasted.

Finally, don’t hang about checking your receipt while the next person – me – is trying to access their items, which are now tumbling all over the place, get out of the way!

Sunday, 11 March 2007

The answer is 'no'

The other day, while I was putting away some letters and cards I received in the past two years (yes, I keep lots of stuff and, yes, I'm very behind in my filing), I came across several envelopes containing hand-painted cards, a few pebbles and bits of driftwood. They were sent to me last Christmas by the guy who was the Art Master at the school in Tewkesbury where I was the ‘French Madamoiselle’ in 1969-70.

David was a lovely, eccentric artist. At the time, he was having an intense affair with the PE mistress – a buxom girl called Sue, who became my best friend there. I used to tag along, when my presence wasn’t an intrusion, and sometimes even when it was beginning to be (it was the late ‘60s, LOL!). We used to listen to music and have impromptu parties. David had a Mini, which he drove like a madman. We went to the Cheltenham Film Club to see – oh, how bohemian! – foreign films (England was so insular then). David wasn’t just an artist, he was also a wonderful photographer – he took the one photograph of me I don’t mind looking at. He was friendly, fun and kind, and I was very sorry when I left and lost touch with him and Sue a couple of years later (they didn’t get married, by the way).

Fast forward 32 years and in a fit of nostalgia I register with Friends Reunited to see if any of my old ‘pupils’ are still around, and before I know it I receive an email from David. He has been married for years and years, has two grown-up daughters and is still teaching, painting and taking photographs. He wants to meet me; wants to come down to London and stay with me; wants to take me to an exhibition... Hey, slow down, it's all going a bit too fast. We exchange a couple more emails and he says all the wrong things. I can’t quite put my finger on why they’re wrong, they just are, and I know we wouldn’t get on. He calls one evening and again says things that make my hackles rise. I decide I don't want to pursue the relationship any further. I find some excuse for not responding to his emails. I feel angry and disappointed: he has spoiled the sweet memories I have of my year in Tewkesbury. I would have got the message. He didn’t. Since then I’ve received masses of letters and cards and odd objets trouvés (he lives by the sea).

What saddens me is that it’s not impossible to renew old friendships: I am in touch with a few people I used to know 30 years ago and who weren’t part of my life for many years in between. When I found them again (or they found me), we picked up where we’d left off. It’s a fantastic feeling – there’s nothing like old friends – but it doesn’t work every time and one has to acknowledge it.


I curse the day I came across Friends Reunited – I gather it has a lot of broken marriages, and even some deaths, on its conscience – and I’m slapping people who behave like stalkers and refuse to recognize when they’re unwanted (yes, I’m talking about you too, S).

Tuesday, 6 March 2007

Or this

It's been revealed recently that English-speaking doctors from the Commonwealth, i.e. from Canada, Australia and India, for instance, have to pass a proficiency test before they're allowed to practise medicine in the UK, but doctors hailing from countries of the EU don’t, even if their English is appalling. As you can imagine, this could have terrible consequences.

It already has. A little while ago, a man probably died because of this mad policy: he collapsed in the surgery of a French GP, who, suspecting a heart attack, called for an ambulance straight away. Unfortunately, instead of saying the man was ‘unconscious’, he said he was ‘sleeping’, so, you know, the ambulance people didn’t think it was such an emergency and they took their time. And who can blame them?


Slap!

Monday, 5 March 2007

You won’t believe this

As part of my English degree I had to spend a year in England. I didn’t want to. I was in love with America and should have been studying there (I’ve already told the story of how it didn’t happen). I adored the English language but didn’t find England attractive at all – the weather, the food... Still, I had to go. I didn’t know much about the English or how to behave in their country so I bought a book. It had just come out and was entitled Comment vivre chez les Anglais (I still have it, although the advice given in it doesn’t really apply any more: it’s a wonderful snapshot of the country in the late ’60s). It was an invaluable resource: it told me about the most curious habits of the English and helped me to avoid the worst faux pas. There was also another book, which said that only an Englishman could have penned Alice in Wonderland – something to do with the fog. Anyway, although they both made clear the English were eccentric and had a taste for nonsense, they never hinted they were completely bonkers and had unfair laws.

What about this, then: there is a thing called ‘chancel repair liability’, which is beyond understanding. It’s complex stuff but, basically, it means that if you own a property situated on land belonging to the Church of England you are obliged to pay for the upkeep of the chancel of any church or chapel located on that land, whether or not you are a churchgoer. And the church doesn’t even have to be close to the property. Furthermore – and that is pretty scary – there is no financial limit to this liability.

It’s an outdated leftover from the Reformation, but the House of Lords ruled recently that the chancel repair liability remains enforceable and doesn’t contravene human rights. That’s why a couple, who had challenged it, are currently wondering how they will manage to pay the £250,000 that’s being demanded of them by the Church. Initially, they had been asked to pay £6,000 but, you know, with legal costs…

It’s bad enough living in a listed building, where you can’t hammer a nail in a wall without having to fill in forms in triplicate, but this is preposterous. And how does it not contravene human rights: it places buildings above human beings.

Told you you’d find it hard to believe.

Slapping anyone involved in the Reformation (no, it’s never too late) and the Lords, who don’t actually live on the same planet as you and me!

Thursday, 1 March 2007

Guest Slapper of the Month XIV

She recently won the Silver Award in the Best Perfume Blog category at the 7th Annual Basenotes Awards. Her perfume reviews are legendary. Her taste is immaculate. Her writing is lush and evocative. She is Victoria of Bois de Jasmin and this is her Slap.


Seduce Yourself!

When Helen Gurley Brown became chief editor of Cosmopolitan magazine in 1965 and changed its focus towards enpowering women to express their sexuality, the move was hardly uncontroversial. Yet, I cannot help thinking when I flip through Cosmo that there is nothing empowering in its features. “How to Seduce Him…” “How to Give Him the Greatest Pleasure He Has Ever Known…” “5 Things Men Love…” In fact, Cosmopolitan is only one of many magazines that suffer from the overwhelming emphasis on “how to please your man.” In one article we are given guidelines on how to understand what he wants before he utters the words and in another we are taught how to double guess him. We are encouraged to wear vanilla rich fragrances because they remind him of his mother and grapefruit perfumes because some unsubstantiated study suggests this will help men to perceive us as younger. Certainly, there is nothing wrong with thinking of others and offering a pleasant surprise to our loved ones, but I take issue with women’s magazines when they forget about the woman herself. What about discovering one’s own interests? What about pleasing oneself for a change?

There is a lot talk of feminism, egalitarian values and how far we have gone since the 50s, but at the same time, the rhetoric of guilt and sacrifice surrounding the issues of marriage, motherhood and relationships is strikingly palpable. When we assess the success and failure of the feminist movement in terms other than income, the story becomes even more complicated. As Madeleine Bunting notes in her article Let's talk about sex in The Guardian, “Female rates of depression continue to be twice those of men; rates of adolescent eating disorders and self-harm are on the rise. Women report high levels of stress in managing complicated double shifts - a day in the office sandwiched between the chores of running a home. Women account for a disproportionate number in the sharp increase in those claiming incapacity benefit.”

Although women’s magazines should not be blamed for all of the problems in our society, they seem to perpetuate the self-denial of one’s own desires. Ultimately, the need to assert our point of view seems to be lost, which goes beyond beauty and perfume and influences other facets of our lives and careers. We are bombarded with messages designed to influence what we want to such an extent that after a while it is impossible to separate our own wishes from those of others.

While I slap publications like Cosmo for their failure to truly empower their target audience, I acknowledge that they can provide amusing distraction. Perhaps, in the end, discovering your own pleasures is not a job that any columnist or pundit of the moment can ever do for you.

Monday, 26 February 2007

Glad it’s not just happening to me

Helen Mirren (sorry, that Dame thing is too preposterous) has won the Oscar for Best Actress. I’m sure she deserves it: she’s a great actress (not as genuine and versatile as Judi Dench, but very good nonetheless; I’ve seen her in dozens of plays and always liked her). Anyway, last night, as the stars were strutting their stuff on the red carpet, someone wrote, on the message board I belong to, ‘When I am in my 70s I want to look like Mirren!’

She’s only 61, of course. LOL!

It’s the white hair again, isn’t it? Either that or some young women are very stupid. Can't decide which it is.

Slap!

Wednesday, 21 February 2007

Where was I…

… before I got so unsettled and found myself reliving the 1970s, when I was young and beautiful (yeah, right!).

I was in theatre. Nothing much has changed since the 70s in that respect. What has changed, though, is what punters are allowed to do in auditoria these days. Once upon a time all you could do was surreptitiously suck a pastille if you were coughing so much that you were disturbing the actors and the rest of the audience, or, after the interval, carry on enjoying your ice-cream in silence. Now – now! – you’re allowed to drink wine all through the play and asphyxiate the person sitting next to you with the fumes.

Pretentious people who bring in bottles of water and take a sip from time to time are bad enough. Since when – no, really!, since when is it necessary to constantly be drinking? Don’t tell me they’re scared of getting dehydrated in such a short time.

Wine is worse, though. Forget about horrible perfumes (I seem to always get a seat behind someone whose favourite fragrance is some sickly gardenia), the smell of wine is disgusting ‘out of context’. A 20-minute interval is more than long enough to finish up a glass or wine, or two or even three, if you insist on getting sloshed. Of course, the management shouldn’t allow it. When people started taking their drinks into the auditoria, there were accidents so now most theatres supply plastic cups to avoid people getting hurt by broken glass, but they shouldn't encourage this new habit; they should forbid it. Years ago, at the Barbican, I was even stopped from taking my ice-cream into the concert hall. I haven’t been there recently, I bet they allow wine drinking like everywhere else.

I suppose I should have been grateful, that night, that my neighbour wasn’t also munching sweets or peanuts, like the one who recently nearly spoiled a wonderful performance of Antony and Cleopatra for me. In the first half, it was Maltesers rolling around in their box and, in the second, it was the smell of wine. What next? Three-course meals?

Slap!

Saturday, 17 February 2007

Tomorrow night...

... I have a deadline.

After that, normal service should resume.

In the meantime, hover your mouse on a link, any link, on this page. Go on! :-)

Thursday, 1 February 2007

Guest Slapper of the Month XIII

Guests are a godsend when one is very busy. Not in real life, of course: they get in the way – especially if you work from home – and you have to entertain them, but as a blogger... You give them a deadline and they produce a piece of writing, which you just have to post on your own blog. Marvellous! So here, for your delight, is L. of Urban Chick. She used to live in London, where she was literate, witty and the devoted mother of two kiddies she calls Chicklets (isn't that cute?). I once thought we might one day bump into each other in the capital (I’m always bumping into people) but she's recently decamped to Edinburgh, where she's being no less literate and witty (and, I hope, no less devoted to her children), and that possibility has unfortunately become more remote. Never mind, I can still visit her on the Net, and so can you. Enjoy!

It's an established fact that, beyond a certain point, wealth does not make you any happier.


I forget the figure most recently quoted in the media, but I remember it being a surprisingly paltry sum in income terms.

And I couldn't agree more. Commercialism, with very few exceptions, leads only to misery and wasted time.
You know how it goes...

You buy a new white good. Perhaps you do so after taking time out to research which model is best/most reliable (an hour online). It fails to arrive within the timescale stated, so you chase the manufacturer or retailer (an hour and a half on the phone, during which you encounter some appalling customer service that leaves you mentally penning emails to consumer rights bodies and media outlets when you should be sleeping). The product arrives and it is slightly damaged but not to the extent that it won't function, but you fret and stress and complain to your friends nonetheless (many hours). You eventually decide that, given the considerable sum you paid for it, you want a replacement, so you investigate how to go about this (more hours spent online or on the phone to 'jobsworth', scripted call centre operators). You make arrangements to return the product or have it collected 'at your convenience' (you're getting the picture now, right?).

So this lovely, shiny new thing which was supposed to transform your toast-making abilities/TV-programme-recording capacity/life has cost you precious hours of tedious activity, infuriating interactions with faceless service providers and stress.

You therefore resolve to lead a life free from unnecessary acquisition and you take time painstakingly to establish just what is and isn't necessary to live a good life (no excessively packaged foods, fewer clothes, no more purposeless ambles around indoor shopping centres and so on). And yet, with frightening ease, you find yourself slipping back onto the path of least resistance.

You find yourself being sucked in by those ubiquitous 'buy one, get one free' or 'three for the price of two' offers. No matter that the product was not something you particularly needed or that it's likely to go off before you get round to opening it. Heck, if the second one is half price, why not?

You become convinced that you need a newer version of a product you already own. A faster computer. A new car. A more aesthetically pleasing ironing board cover. The one you have is perfectly functional but there seems to be a good case for upgrading/renewing/replacing. (To hell with landfill and the environment!)

You give in to well-meaning relatives who regularly deluge your children with toys at birthdays and Christmastime, even though you've tried (subtly) to remind them how much more imaginative children's play is when they have to improvise with bits and bobs from around the house.

So I'm slapping the people who continue to believe that acquisition leads to happiness. But I'm slapping myself for being so weak in the face of this knowledge and giving in to the commercial imperative. (Hey, who can resist a little self-flagellation now and again?)

Sunday, 28 January 2007

Bear with me...

...while I consider making this VIB (Very Important Blog) open to invited readers only. LOL!

Hang on, what was it Groucho Marx said about clubs again?

Wednesday, 24 January 2007

A bunch of gripes

I’m still working on the guide to Provence I started updating back in November (see Being rude in an email is... being rude). No, it doesn’t take several months to do that job: I got delayed.

Anyway, after writing to all those tourist offices and plundering the brochures they sent me for information, I have to phone millions of people – from hotels to museums to night-clubs to candied fruit factories... It’s not rocket science, as they say, but it’s time-consuming, tiring for the voice, and sometimes trying as well.

There are the hotel/B&B owners who let their tiny kids answer the phone to potential customers. I’m not one of them but I might be and, in an indirect way, I represent them. Does a tiny child know how much the hotel charges for a double room in the summer? No, they don’t, and therefore should not pick up the receiver when the phone rings. When I hear a little voice go, ‘Hullo!’, followed by a giggle, my heart sinks. My calls are not refunded by my employers and I know that I’m now going to have to persuade the tiny child to go and fetch their mummy or daddy so the ADULTS can have a meaningful conversation – hours later! I always feel like removing those places from the guide. I don’t, of course, but it’s very tempting.

Then there are the museum officials who don’t know where the museum they’re working in is situated. ‘Could you confirm your address, please: is this correct.....?’ ‘Erm... hey, Nicole, what’s the address here?’ I sometimes say, ‘How did you get there this morning?’

And then there are the museum officials – sometimes they’re the same ones – who don’t know what their opening hours are. ‘Hey, Claudette, when are we open?’ I have to resist asking, ‘How did you know what time to get to work this morning?’

Not to mention the restaurateurs who don’t know how much their menus cost.

And no one in France knows the difference between a website and an email address!

Ah, the joys of dealing with strangers on the phone!

Slap!

Wednesday, 17 January 2007

I've been tagged

I do sometimes say 'yes' to things and Red-Queen of She'll be feverish after so much thinking is responsible for what follows. All complaints should be addressed to her.

4 jobs I've had:
Translator/archivist in the Department of Neurophysiology at the Faculty of Science in Nice
My first real job, while I was still at college; I spent a wonderful two years there; I’m still friends with my bosses, 35 years later.
Technical Interpreter with the RSC and the National Theatre
On several tours to French-speaking countries. Lighting technicians are wonderful people – well, most of them.
Dispensary assistant at Penhaligon’s
Not as glamorous as you might think; in fact, not glamorous at all.
Production editor at Mills & Boon/Harlequin
Go on, laugh!

4 movies I'd watch over and over:
The Persecution and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat as performed by the inmates of the Asylum of Charenton under the direction of the Marquis de Sade, or Marat/Sade
That film, directed by Peter Brook, changed the course of my life – literally. At the time of its release, people joked, ‘I haven’t seen the film, but I’ve read the title!’ LOL!
The Remains of the Day
The whole film is unbearably moving, but I love one scene more than any other: the one where Anthony Hopkins is reading a book, which he refuses to let Emma Thompson see, and she very slowly prises it out of his hands. Ah!
Schindler’s List
Because, again, it’s unbearably moving, and also life-affirming, and Liam Neeson is superb in it.
The Bridges of Madison County
I gather it’s a rotten book, but if you haven’t seen Meryl Streep in this you don’t know what really great acting is: her body language is incredible. And the end is unbearably moving (is it me or is this getting repetitive? LOL!)
Are you sure I can’t mention Pretty Woman or The Draughtsman’s Contract or The Rocky Horror Picture Show? What about Dolores Claiborne and Casque d’Or? No? Oh, all right, then.

4 places I've lived, apart from where I live now:
Paris
Nice
Stratford-upon-Avon
Notting Hill Gate
I know it’s in London, but I haven’t lived anywhere else.

4 TV shows I love:
Law and Order: Criminal Intent
Law and Order: Special Victims Unit
Law and
Order, er, the ordinary one…
Oh, ok, start again:
Law and Order: Criminal Intent
Because I have a crush on Goren (we’re not intimate enough for me to call him Bobby. Bobby? He’s not a Bobby!) and I want to twist my body the way he does.
CSI: the real thing
Because I have a crush on Grissom. Being French, I can do his moue better than anyone else.
CSI: Miami
Because I have a crush on Horatio and I too want to talk to people while standing sideways.
CSI: New York
Because I have a crush on Stella’s hair. I’ve tried to have a crush on Mac but I can’t. Gary Sinise? No can do.
Oh, what about The West Wing, and Imagine and The South Bank Show (two wonderful arts programmes)? Sorry, can’t mention them.


4 places I've been on holiday:
Venice
Two days
New York
Four and a half days
Edinburgh
Three weeks (in two separate batches, as it were).
Israel
Probably three or four months – over a period of 15 years .

4 websites I visit daily:
Yahoo! France – Actualités
The only bit of French I get to read these days.
MakeUpAlley
I meet my mates there for a chat.
My friends’ blogs
Lots of them. Bloglines periodically pops up and goes: 376 pages to read!
The Telegraph online
Stupid paper (blech!) but great fashion and beauty section.

4 favorite foods:
Chocolate
Preferably with hazelnut (I have a passion for gianduja).
Oysters
Raw with a tiny drop of lemon juice (can’t have vinegar or shallots these days).
Artichokes
Self-explanatory: they are wonderful.
Saucisson sec
I haven’t had any for twelve years and will never again be able to eat it.

4 places I'd rather be right now:
That’s easy
Nice
Nice
Nice
Nice

4 books I enjoy re-reading:
The Conference of the Birds (The Story of Peter Brook in Africa) by John Heilpern
Peter Brook has had a huge influence on my life (see Marat/Sade) and this is such an inspiring book.
Fugitive Pieces by Anne Michaels
It’s about loss and love and survival, and the writing is out of this world.
Neither Here Nor There by Bill Bryson
It makes me scream with laughter. So true.
Howard’s End by E.M. Forster
My favourite of all his novels. So true too.
And then, of course, there’s French literature… Colette, Maupassant, Marguerite Yourcenar…


4 CDs that never leave my rotation:
Leonard Cohen (anything by)
Joan Baez (anything by)
Milva

Singing Brecht.
Esther Ofarim (anything by)
I haven’t listened to any of the above for a while: must finish converting all my old LPs/cassettes to mp3 files – time-consuming is not the word.

It’s only taken me four hours to write this. Who has four hours to spare? Who shall I tag?

Oh, botheration: all the people I was thinking of have already been tagged by other people, so I’m afraid the whole thing stops here or, if you want to take part, please do. Let us know in the Comments and we'll all go and read what you wrote.

Addendum: Apparently, today, Monday 22 January is officially the most depressing day of the year. Sheila Hancock was asked on Front Row what she did to cheer herself up on a miserable Monday; she said she watched The Producers, and she mentioned the ‘blue blanket’ scene, in which Zero Mostel tries to prise Gene Wilder's security blanket out of his hands and the latter gets absolutely hysterical. It occurred to me that this was the comic equivalent of that scene in The Remains of the Day. It is also my favourite scene in The Producers. I must have a thing about people prising things out of other people's hands.