Je suis malade...

I’m ill. I suppose it serves me right for telling my eldest daughter to buck up and stop being such a hypochondriac when she complained of earache, headache and a sore throat a few days ago. Now I’ve got it and I just want to burrow down beneath the couette and feel sorry for myself all day, while somebody brings me mugs of cocoa and refills my hot water bottle. As nobody in this house is willing to do that, I had to get up anyway and go shopping. I won’t go to the doctor because I am still very English about that sort of thing and don’t like to bother her. The French think I’m mad.

The existence of germs was discovered in the 19th century by a Frenchman, Louis Pasteur, and as a result the French have illnesses that don’t even exist in Britain. The dreaded crise de foie for example is just a result of overindulgence but there are plenty of pills and potions to cure it. Many fatal conditions are brought on by les courants d’air – draughts – or by not-wearing-a-scarf. It’s no wonder they have twice as many doctors as we do and visit them more often than we would ever dare. It’s also common for a patient to ask the doctor for a specific medicine (“I’d like some tetracycline please and could you throw in some Prozac while you’re at it as I’ve been feeling a bit down, lately?”) and it is positively unthinkable to leave the surgery without a prescription. Being told to take a couple of aspirin and have a lie-down will not do.

I did try homeopathy once. But when a particularly wild-eyed, mad-haired paediatrician prescribed lead for my eight-year old daughter, in order to “give her aspirations a solid outline as in a stained-glass window”, I chickened out and got someone else to prescribe a course of antibiotics instead.

I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to go to bed early with a good book and a hot toddy – or three. That should do the trick…

TEFL

If there’s anyone out there who would like to offer me a job that doesn’t involve explaining the present perfect to retired postal workers or prepositions to three year olds, then I’m up for it. Nearly all my life I’ve Taught-English-As-A-Foreign-Language and I’ve never grown to enjoy it let alone be good at it. But when you live in a foreign country and you’re looking for work – well – it seems the obvious choice.

The retired postal workers are good fun although sometimes things can get out of hand. Yesterday, I lost control of the class when I started talking about pennies. Now, 'pennies' has never struck me as being a particularly rude word but suddenly I found myself in a Gallic version of a Carry On film. And as soon as everyone started pronouncing ‘pennies’ à la française, I realised why…

The three year-olds are another kettle of fish all together. The classes take place in the home of one of the children who, because he is chez lui, just does what he likes and screams for maman when he’s not happy. Two little girls spend most of the time spinning around on their bottoms on the very shiny, slippery parquet flooring, another two children are bouncing on the sofa, one plays with his Game Boy, another tries to steal the flashcards and one little girl sobs quietly all the way through. The point is, none of them listens to a word I say.

If anyone can suggest an alternative way I could earn my living without going insane, please email me immediately. In the meantime, I have a few dangling participles to deal with before tomorrow…

Raclette

A few weeks ago, I acquired a raclette machine thanks to the number of S'Miles on my Monoprix store card (this is the equivalent of collecting Green Shield stamps, for those of you old enough to remember that). I've been wanting one for ages and it's made me very happy. I am a woman of simple tastes...

Eating raclette has become a Sunday tradition in our house (yes, well I've never been able to make Yorkshire Pudding). It is a typical dish in mountain regions - you just boil some potatoes in their skins, pour melted raclette cheese over them and eat with pickles and dried meats. The machine is a table-top grill that comes with small pans to heat your cheese in until it's warm and bubbly. In the olden days, they suspended half a wheel of the cheese over the fire and scraped it onto plates as it melted: the word raclette comes from the verb racler - to scrape. Of course, in the olden days people needed this sort of stodgy, comforting food to sustain them while they herded cows, chopped logs and climbed mountains whereas all I ever do on a Sunday afternoon is lie around wishing I hadn't eaten so much...

Anyway, Sunday is a day of rest so I think I'll just take a little nap...à plus

Chocolate

I never thought I'd say this but I am sick of chocolate. Only a month ago I was having to navigate my way around Monoprix's garish displays of chocolate pumpkins, chocolate witches and chocolate poltergeists (OK, I made that one up) just to get to the deodorant - and now there are chocolate snowmen and Father Christmases blocking my path. It's in the muesli, in the All Bran, in the candles - it's even in the shower gel, for goodness' sake.

The French do take their chocolate very seriously and for those of us who are not true connoisseurs and whose idea of chocolate heaven is a tube of Smarties and a couple of Walnut Whips, French chocolate can come as a shock. It is strong and bitter and tastes like something the doctor might prescribe for a sport’s injury. However, once you realise it is a delicacy to be savoured and that you should let it dissolve slowly on your tongue rather than ripping off the wrapper and shoving it into your mouth half a bar at a time while waiting for the bus, you may just grow to appreciate it.

Training to be a chocolate maker - a chocolatier - is a real career option here and there is even a Université de la Confiserie (University of Confectionary) where you can study for diplomas and take courses with titles like “Making Easter a success” and “Chocolate and personal fulfilment”. Slightly more worrying is the existence of a “Brotherhood” of chocolate makers, with all the trappings of a Masonic Lodge complete with robes, Grand Master and initiation ceremonies. New recruits have to swear to “remain faithful to the Brotherhood of the Chocolate Makers of France and to eat chocolate regularly” whereupon they are solemnly dubbed a “commander of the Brotherhood” with a Ceremonial Spatula. Perhaps they even greet each other with a secret sticky handshake – who knows?

I did buy some chocolate euros in Monoprix today, though. I mean, you can't have a Christmas stocking without squished chocolate money in the bottom, can you? Well, my girls say you can and that iPods are probably a better option - but what do they know? When I was young, I was happy to find crayons and an orange in the bottom of mine. And it wasn't even a chocolate orange...