tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4059645044876637752024-03-13T14:41:41.444+01:00French WindowsGigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.comBlogger126125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-405964504487663775.post-90597332753037798372020-04-12T22:20:00.000+01:002020-04-12T22:20:47.052+01:00Behind my French WindowsIn these strange times, we do strange things...<br />
<br />
I made a video for my English classes who are, like me, in <i>confinement</i>.<br />
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I do hope they follow my advice.<br />
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Take care and stay at home!<br />
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<br />Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-405964504487663775.post-2338073909940745522019-04-21T16:18:00.000+01:002019-04-21T16:22:01.893+01:001989Abi's new single is out - she's dancing, like it's 1989.<br />
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In 1989, she was a mere twinkle in my eye, of course but she probably remembers me dancing around the kitchen in my apron, with my cool eighties' moves.<br />
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I inspire people that way...<br />
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<br />Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-405964504487663775.post-70975492556127753572018-10-08T20:50:00.002+01:002018-10-08T20:51:18.936+01:00Running FreeMy daughter's new single is out so I'm plugging the video here!<br />
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Not sure how she managed to ride a bicycle in those shoes though...<br />
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<br />Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-405964504487663775.post-35626150238256062872018-08-19T15:59:00.000+01:002018-08-19T17:41:21.142+01:00At the car wash, yeah<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ND3s1B5T0Y0/W3l_3CwYqYI/AAAAAAAACf0/NIK1K0Q3p6M5NBCvCIAiyG-Dxwf6NeKiQCLcBGAs/s1600/carwash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1145" data-original-width="1300" height="281" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ND3s1B5T0Y0/W3l_3CwYqYI/AAAAAAAACf0/NIK1K0Q3p6M5NBCvCIAiyG-Dxwf6NeKiQCLcBGAs/s320/carwash.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%;">My car failed its <i>contrôle technique</i> last month so I’m
taking it to be fixed tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">Thing is, it was a bit grubby. The man who did the MOT
remarked – between guffaws- that moss was sprouting from the window frames. I
was mortified.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">So today, I bravely ventured to the car wash.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">Now, I have been avoiding this for years (hence the
moss). Anything mechanical or electronic terrifies me. I do not understand
instructions and invariably I end up getting it all wrong. Filling my tank with
LPG is one example. The instructions make no sense to me and the last time I
attempted it (after asking for help from a charming young man), I only managed
to put in a few millilitres. Apparently, you’re supposed to keep your finger
pressed on that green button. It didn’t say that, though, on the instructions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">I’ve also replaced my windscreen wipers and put the new
ones on backwards, tried to wrench open a massive industrial container at the
tip in order to dispose of my old printer (<i>You’re meant to put it on the
table next to the container! </i>yelled an alarmed council worker) and
please don’t ask me to change the clock on my cooker when the time comes – I’ll
just break it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">So I was very, very nervous as I tootled along to <i>Top O Net</i> this morning, hoping that it would be deserted and that I could fumble
incompetently without an audience.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lQi2Tk0AHdY/W3mDILAAmZI/AAAAAAAACgE/fnlAZZUiJ5MprduBikhPIJ3sp3aaON56wCLcBGAs/s1600/toponet2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="180" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lQi2Tk0AHdY/W3mDILAAmZI/AAAAAAAACgE/fnlAZZUiJ5MprduBikhPIJ3sp3aaON56wCLcBGAs/s320/toponet2.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">No such luck. There were loads of people and when it was
my turn, I had to ask for help because I didn’t know where to put my money,
which button to press or where the hosepipe thingy was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">Once I’d understood, it was all rather fun. Hot, soapy
water shooting out of the hose at high pressure, swishing away all that plant
material. Easy-peasy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">Then it stopped. No problem – I just dropped the hose
and ran to put in another coin, which wasn’t very clever of me as the hose came
to life again, jerking wildly all over the place as I tried to catch it before
it made a break for freedom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">Red-faced and dripping, I finished the job and moved on
to the vacuum cleaner ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">After a minute or two pressing several button-shaped
protuberances which weren’t buttons at all, I realised that the machine hadn’t
accepted my one-euro coin, so I put in a two-euro coin and <i>whooooosh </i>– we were
off !<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">But two euros buys you quite a lot of hoovering time. I’d
vacuumed the floor, the seats, the pockets, the boot and it was still sucking
away while an impatient queue was forming behind me. So I sat inside and
hoovered everything that could possibly be hoovered : the clutch pedal,
the gearstick, the radio, my feet…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">Finally, it stopped and, donning my dark glasses, I
made my exit with as much dignity as I could muster.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">My car is parked outside now, sparkling in the afternoon
sun and I shall drive it to the garage tomorrow without a hint of shame.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">My next exciting project will be the assembling of a
bookcase from Ikea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">I’ll let you know…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
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<br />Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-405964504487663775.post-18551141418459425422018-06-26T11:10:00.001+01:002018-07-11T13:02:50.211+01:00And the beat goes on...This year's <i>Fête de la Musique </i>saw me huddled desperately over the piano, practising hymns for Sunday, Les Dawson style.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, my daughter was doing her thing in Chambéry.<br />
<br />
Hmmmm. Maybe she doesn't take after me at all...<br />
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<br />Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-405964504487663775.post-46594786844983978362018-01-05T15:56:00.001+01:002018-01-05T15:57:05.817+01:00My little Star<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">My youngest
daughter is finally doing what she always wanted to do : living it up on
the Côte d’Azur (ok, not living it up exactly, but certainly <i>living</i>) and
writing and performing songs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And in
return for my support, long-suffering and food parcels, I hope soon to reap the
benefits in the form of a small but charming villa in Provence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Because I,
too, like to dream…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Well done,
sweetheart xxx<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
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Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-405964504487663775.post-53392173978664935782017-08-30T17:13:00.000+01:002017-08-30T20:08:25.144+01:00Ahmed, the Good Samaritan<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I seem to have
become a bit of a wuss since The Menopause. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I used to be
confident about doing all sorts of things: DIY, rewiring plugs, getting rid of
computer viruses, going to the loo in unfamiliar cafés without wandering into
the broom cupboard by mistake (ok, that’s not true – I’ve always had problems
there) and changing the car battery.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Not any longer. I
have become a jittery lily-livered wimp of a woman, too scared to do anything
in case I inadvertently die.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-A_td7GFHZDY/WabhgHc_2JI/AAAAAAAACcI/D4jgmWlSP5kqv0byBg5ybeZKfOg07TKTQCLcBGAs/s1600/scary2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="738" data-original-width="539" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-A_td7GFHZDY/WabhgHc_2JI/AAAAAAAACcI/D4jgmWlSP5kqv0byBg5ybeZKfOg07TKTQCLcBGAs/s320/scary2.JPG" width="233" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My car battery did
die, on the other hand, about a month ago. It didn’t help that I’d left the
warning lights on for three days but it was getting a tad menopausal itself, so
I needed a new one.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And suddenly, I
felt overwhelmed by the task. I watched videos, studied websites, wrote down a
list of appropriate tools and procrastinated admirably until finally, today, I
set off to the second-nearest supermarket to buy a new battery.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh boy, was it
heavy! I had to put it down every ten steps and change arms before they were
wrenched from their sockets. It was going to take me forever to get home…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> “Oh Lord,” I said, “Please send someone to
help!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And He did. Immediately.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A car stopped and a
total stranger leaned out of the window and asked if I wanted a lift. Now, I no
longer get into cars with total strangers (that’s all in my past) but my arms
didn’t seem to be working properly anymore so I had little choice.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Not only did this
kind man go out of his way to take me home, he also offered to change the
battery for me, improvising with the inappropriate (as it turned out) tools I’d
just bought. It was a long job.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">His name is Ahmed. I
told him he was the answer to my prayer; he told me it was Destiny as he doesn’t usually take the
route he took today but did so on a whim. We had a brief theological discussion
beneath the bonnet and parted ways.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So although you won’t
read this, thank you lovely Ahmed.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And yes, girls. The
Taxi Service is back in action…</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-405964504487663775.post-47777244534990321572016-08-03T21:08:00.000+01:002016-08-03T21:08:12.102+01:00Pictures at an Exhibition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pXtWqLH28zo/V6JLxS_RcmI/AAAAAAAACUM/z3XrdqxZ1_MdmR-Hmunyi8BhEj9cm1JzQCLcB/s1600/apprin2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pXtWqLH28zo/V6JLxS_RcmI/AAAAAAAACUM/z3XrdqxZ1_MdmR-Hmunyi8BhEj9cm1JzQCLcB/s320/apprin2.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The
summer holidays are a bit difficult for me as, without the routine of a working
week, I am just a Blob on the Sofa.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So
I have to make a huge effort to ‘do’ things. I’m too poor to go on exotic
holidays – or even unexotic ones – and too lazy at the moment to go walking.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So
today, I ambled along to the <i>Musée de l’Ancien Evêché</i> to a most wonderful exhibition
featuring the work of the little-known amateur photographer, Joseph Apprin.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Joseph
Apprin was born in Saint-Geoires-en-Valdaine, in Isère, in 1859. He worked as a
clerk in Grenoble and like many of his middle-class contemporaries, took up a fashionable
new-fangled hobby: photography.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But,
unlike his fellow photographers, he did not content himself with taking pretty,
soft-focus pictures of bucolic scenes (this was the era of Impressionism, of
course); rather, he preferred to photograph everyday scenes and ordinary people.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qTP1kNUqlTM/V6JNHP5O74I/AAAAAAAACUY/9mCXmAACfDsbj6XgXT97IdP4cpL1T1aSgCLcB/s1600/apprin4.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qTP1kNUqlTM/V6JNHP5O74I/AAAAAAAACUY/9mCXmAACfDsbj6XgXT97IdP4cpL1T1aSgCLcB/s320/apprin4.png" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The
result is fascinating. Apprin took pictures of men playing <i>boules</i>, women washing
clothes (apparently, they only washed bed linen once or twice a year, which
makes me, with my dodgy housekeeping skills, feel a lot better) and children
swimming in the river. He photographed labourers – a strange and novel subject
for the time – and took pictures of his own children playing. He even made a
few delightful ‘selfies’, grinning and making faces.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7o9UpWKg2zw/V6JNoGOobkI/AAAAAAAACUo/xrwQyxjbL0cNDNdJfjJVA6G2KM7bK4TqACLcB/s1600/apprin6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7o9UpWKg2zw/V6JNoGOobkI/AAAAAAAACUo/xrwQyxjbL0cNDNdJfjJVA6G2KM7bK4TqACLcB/s320/apprin6.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He
died aged 49, in 1908, and would probably only have been remembered for his
administration skills had his glass-plate negatives not been discovered almost
by accident a century later.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So,
if you’re broke and too lazy to go walking, why not pop along <a href="http://www.ancien-eveche-isere.fr/3495-joseph-apprin-photographies-1890-1908.htm" target="_blank">here </a>and see this
exhibition? It’s called <i>Le spectacle des rues et des chemins</i> and it’s free!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-405964504487663775.post-68894170148181301592016-01-01T00:46:00.001+01:002016-01-01T00:46:32.157+01:00Bonne Année<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-405964504487663775.post-18156392059378661522015-06-21T20:34:00.000+01:002015-06-21T22:53:50.704+01:00Oh Happy Day!<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There are so many things to celebrate today
that I’ve copped out and decided to spend this sunny afternoon lolling on the
sofa. There’s only so much merry-making I can stomach before I get a panic
attack.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">First off is <i>La Fête des Pères</i>. We’ve spent the
past week at school making Father’s Day cards from cunningly-folded sheets of
paper. I was designated to instruct the children on the proper way to do this.
The last time I was designated to do crafts with the children, I pyrographed my
own arm so I wasn’t hopeful.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Every single child managed to produce a
delightful shirt-shape, with a collar and sleeves and everything. I produced a
wrinkly sea monster with one leg and an atrophied head. Well, I didn’t put
origami on my CV so what do they expect?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here’s my own lovely dad whom I miss every
day. I bet he couldn’t do origami either…<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Of course, it's also <i>La Fête de la
Musique</i>. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve already participated
in this: our <a href="http://grenoblechurch.org/" target="_blank">church </a>gave a Gospel concert on Friday evening in front of the <i>Centre
Loisirs et Culture</i> during a mini-hurricane. I was OK with that as I could blame
my eerie howling on the wind.</span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Anyway, I’ve consulted the
programme for Grenoble today and nothing takes my fancy so I’m posting a few
musical family clips instead.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here’s Abi
rehearsing with her new group:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here’s Hannah
singing at the Celebration of Life for her uncle Ian:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And here’s my dear
brother himself, playing one of his own compositions. We all miss you very much,
you know…<o:p></o:p></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Finally, it’s <i>Le Solstice d'été -</i> Midsummer’s Day. How does one celebrate that? Well, if pagans are to be believed,
I should bathe skyclad beneath the sun, pick a few herbs, drink mead and bathe
skyclad (again) beneath the honey moon. If I tried doing that on my balcony,
they’d set fire to my car (although I could dance pagan-like around it, I
suppose).</span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nah. I’ll just enjoy the longest day of the year from my sofa,
nightie-clad and drinking tea.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Have a Happy Happy Day!</span></span><br />
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Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-405964504487663775.post-10136993429424319022015-03-20T22:15:00.000+01:002015-03-20T23:27:59.783+01:00Eclipsed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-icx7cX98uy8/VQyL6VXFhuI/AAAAAAAACNs/fHiug5stV5Q/s1600/misty.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-icx7cX98uy8/VQyL6VXFhuI/AAAAAAAACNs/fHiug5stV5Q/s1600/misty.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Well, the sun was certainly eclipsed today
here in Grenoble.</span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Even if I <i>had </i>managed to drag myself away from my fascinating
lesson on the Present Perfect Continuous and nipped outside, I would have seen
nothing but mist (oh, ok, smog) obscuring the light.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Far more interesting were the reactions at
the Primary school where I also work. The headmistress was inundated with calls from
worried parents who wanted reassurance that their children would be kept inside
the classrooms with the blinds down during the fateful event. One mother phoned
to say her child was so traumatized, she wouldn’t be coming to school at all.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">What on earth would they have made of the
total eclipse of 1999?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ll never forget that warm August day when
we all went up to Beachy Head on the South Downs, clutching our silly glasses
and a picnic hamper. Half the population of Eastbourne had had the same idea,
it seemed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We found a spot to sit on the grass, donned
our glasses and gazed at the sky, waiting.</span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I remember how the air suddenly chilled
as the sun turned black and twilight fell; the eerie silence as the birds
stopped singing. The awe...<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And that, I think</span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> you'll agree, was an eclipse to put</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> today's feeble effort firmly in the shade...</span></div>
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Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-405964504487663775.post-23635494028378939042014-07-21T00:11:00.001+01:002014-08-19T09:25:17.036+01:00In perspective<span style="font-family: inherit;">
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Stereotypes may or may not be true: the
stiff upper-lip of the British, the discipline of the Germans, the excitability
of the Italians and…the grumpiness of the French. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">To be honest, I only know a handful of proper
<em>raleurs</em> – complainers. Most of the French people I meet are delightfully
easy-going. Nevertheless, this stereotype has come in very handy as an excuse
for my own grumpy-miserable-feeling-sorry-for-myself state of mind. It’s all rubbed off on me, see?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ah but...my perspective was all wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">This post is for my little brother (he'll always be my ‘little’
brother) and he’s seriously ill. If there are any readers living in the Brighton area, please
support this touching venture organised by Ian's musician friends.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s all about h</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">ope</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">.</span></span><br />
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</span>Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-405964504487663775.post-89988426183574362842014-03-08T02:34:00.000+01:002014-03-08T10:53:47.005+01:00Feminine Articles<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Hc0asaWlx_o/UxpyxZOLSRI/AAAAAAAAB7U/DPO4P_vo80Y/s1600/marianne-2.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Hc0asaWlx_o/UxpyxZOLSRI/AAAAAAAAB7U/DPO4P_vo80Y/s1600/marianne-2.gif" height="253" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s
International Women’s Day so I thought I’d write a piece about my struggle, here
in France, with all things feminine.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Well,
not all things feminine. Nouns mostly. After twenty-seven years in this
country, you’d think I’d have got the hang of this <em>le/la, un/une</em> business but <em>pas
du tout</em>. I provide endless amusement for my French friends and colleagues
because I still get it wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I
mean, some words just <em>sound</em> feminine to my worryingly gender-stereotyped
(I’ve just realized) mind. Like <em>nuage</em>…soft and fluffy, it’s actually masculine. Or <em>pétale</em>,
which is also masculine. And then there is <em>victime</em> and <em>personne</em>, which are feminine.
So when the newsreader refers to a male murder victim as ‘<em>elle’</em>, I get terribly
confused.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As
for <em>délice</em>, <em>amour</em> and <em>orgue</em>, these masculine nouns become feminine in the
plural. In fact, <em>orgue</em> can be either masculine or feminine in the plural
depending on…oh, never mind…something to do with stops and bellows, no doubt.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Fortunately,
my life has been made easier in recent years as the government attempts to
feminise job titles whilst provoking apoplexy in that bastion of the French
language, the <em>Académie Française</em>. For example, it is now acceptable to refer to
<strong>la</strong> <em>ministre</em>, if the MP in question is a woman. I can also speak of <em>une
ingénieure, une auteure</em> or <em>une professeure</em> and nobody laughs at me. But if I’m
feeling particularly mischievous, I might mention a primary school teacher I
know (<em>une maîtresse</em>) whose name is… Madame Lemaître. That keeps ‘em guessing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>Madame</em>,
of course, is the title given to a married woman. There is no equivalent of 'Ms'
in French: you are either <em>Madame</em> or <em>Mademoiselle</em>. But this is about to change.
In February, a ministerial circular declared that <em>Mademoiselle</em> should be
removed from all administrative documents, along with the terms <em>nom de jeune fille</em>
(maiden name) and <em>nom d’époux</em> (husband’s name). <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">While
this is a good move, it didn’t stop me from being inordinately pleased the other
day when the woman in the supermarket called me to her checkout.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Mademoiselle…”
she began.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I
raised my head from the magazines I’d been looking at and smiled graciously.
The anti-wrinkle cream must be paying off.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">She
clapped her hand to her mouth.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Ooh,
I’m terribly sorry,” she squealed for all to hear. “You’re so small, I thought
you were a child.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So
much for sisterhood.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">To
be fair, I also struggle with all things masculine in France. But that’s quite
another story and I still have such a lot to learn…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nAzrFJ7-v_Q/UxpyrTHvpOI/AAAAAAAAB7M/b2IXQbWeSHE/s1600/mars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nAzrFJ7-v_Q/UxpyrTHvpOI/AAAAAAAAB7M/b2IXQbWeSHE/s1600/mars.jpg" height="302" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Joyeuse Journée Internationale de la Femme!<o:p></o:p></span></em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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</span>Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-405964504487663775.post-26059060068723055742013-10-20T20:29:00.000+01:002013-10-22T10:09:33.298+01:00The Vercors<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fIV-O5__9j8/UmQmr_fnVXI/AAAAAAAABhk/tkjCjw7f23M/s1600/IMG_1591.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fIV-O5__9j8/UmQmr_fnVXI/AAAAAAAABhk/tkjCjw7f23M/s320/IMG_1591.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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</span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My little blue car chugs valiantly upwards
on the winding road to the Vercors mountains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even with the accelerator pressed to the
floor, she will not go any faster than 60km an hour. The line of impatient
motorists behind me is getting longer and I have to pull into a lay-by twice to
let them pass.</span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I have not ventured into the Vercors for
years. The first time was when we arrived in Grenoble in 2001. I was excited at
the prospect of tasting the local AOC cheese: <em>Bleu de Vercors-Sassenage</em> and we
eventually found a dairy farm that sold it. Unfortunately, the farmer was in
the middle of mending his tractor when we got there and hastily wrapped us a
piece of cheese with his grubby hands covered in engine oil. We haven’t eaten
it since.</span></span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QFRMUYEaoes/UmQlo1FisjI/AAAAAAAABes/JHZdDsWNLTM/s1600/bleu_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QFRMUYEaoes/UmQlo1FisjI/AAAAAAAABes/JHZdDsWNLTM/s320/bleu_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I pass through that village now, I am
amused to see that it’s called Engins - and the association of blue cheese and tractor
oil is fixed forever in my mind.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The second visit was to the <em>Grotte de
Choranche</em>, a hauntingly beautiful cave, a fairytale palace of emerald pools and
fragile glittering stalactites fit for a Snow Queen… </span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Close to Choranche is the medieval village
of Pont-en-Royans, famous for its <em>maisons suspendues</em> that overlook the river Bourne.
The houses, with their pastel façades, date from the 15<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> century. Oh,
it is as pretty as a picture!</span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The third time I went, I recklessly braved
the steep and winding <em>Col de Menée</em> in search of <a href="http://french-windows.blogspot.fr/2008/05/purple-haze.html" target="_blank">lavender</a> fields in the south. When
I finally reached Die, I was in dire need of a glass of its famous <em>clairette</em> –
a sweet, sparkling wine made from muscat and clairette grapes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was driving, so resisted the temptation, even
though the trauma of navigating those sheer and monstrous cliffs had reduced me
to a quivering blob.</span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Vercors is also famous for the <em>maquis</em>,
the group of French freedom fighters who resisted the German occupation of
France during World War 2. Parts of the Vercors are hostile, isolated and
difficult to access and therefore made an ideal refuge for these brave,
determined people.</span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But on this sunny afternoon, I am driving
to Méaudre, which is neither hostile nor isolated and is easy to access, even
for me. I want to wander through a dappled forest, breathe pure mountain air and
savour the colours of early autumn.</span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Vercors is home to animals such as the
ibex, the mouflon (wild sheep) and the chamois. There were even bears here once
but they disappeared in 1940 and were never reintroduced. I merely
get a glimpse of a handful of clucking hens, deer dashing across
fields and a few disgruntled cows.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There are so many mushrooms and toadstools,
so many shapes and colours. One day, I would like to learn how to identify them
but for now, I simply stoop to admire their beauty.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-GB">On the way back, I pass several farmhouses
with intriguing roof details. I discover that the limestone tiles are arranged
in what are called <em>sauts de moineaux</em> or ‘sparrow hops’…like a staircase. This
was to protect the houses – which once had thatched roofs – from catching fire
during lightning storms. The stone at the top is known as <em>la couve</em> and is a
fertility symbol, vestige of the Celtic tribe, the <span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>Vertacomocorii</em></span>, <span style="font-family: inherit;">which</span></span> </span></span></span></span><em><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">gave its name to the <span style="color: black;">region</span>.</span></span></em></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Driving home is less embarrassing because
it’s all downhill and my little car can manage that quite well, thank you very
much.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This is probably my last walk before
autumn turns into winter. Winter is for shivering on the sofa slurping soup and
grumbling about the snow.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Roll on spring…</span></span><br />
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</span>Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-405964504487663775.post-81524946702635649852013-07-07T18:47:00.000+01:002013-07-11T18:49:54.547+01:00A Tale of Two Châteaux<span style="font-family: inherit;">
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was such a beautiful day yesterday, but
very hot. I decided I needed a walk in the forest and found an itinerary that
started an ended at a <em>château</em>. Perfect! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">But first I had to walk to the <em>château</em> in
Eybens, about four kilometres away. Napoleon stopped here in 1815, on his way
from Laffrey where he had confronted the King’s army and come out of it rather
well. It is said that on arriving in Eybens, he was offered a footbath by an
old woman, <em>la mère Simiand,</em> before continuing his route to Grenoble. Lucky man...</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">I, meanwhile, set off beneath the blazing
sun in my khaki shorts, acutely conscious of my pasty, muscular Welsh calves -
inherited from my hill-farmer ancestors – as I trudged beside the busy main
road and over the motorway bridge. It was a relief to finally reach the shady
lanes around the <em>château</em> gardens.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">Of the <em>château</em> itself, I barely caught a
glimpse. It perches high on a hill overlooking the village, the rooftops
peeking above the trees.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">There is some mystery concerning its
origins. Documents suggest the existence of a <em>château</em> before 1120 but it was
rebuilt in the mid 17<span style="font-size: small;"><sup>th</sup> century by, claims a rather salacious legend,
Christine de Savoie, the daughter of Henri IV. Apparently, she built it as her
personal royal Den of Iniquity, to entertain her numerous lovers and host all
sorts of wickedness such as black masses and necromancy. As there is no hard
evidence for this story, it was probably made up by someone who didn’t like her
very much.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UV0W8xc1X0w/UdmhgBd_gLI/AAAAAAAABXk/z_t9hA789hI/s1600/IMG_0804.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UV0W8xc1X0w/UdmhgBd_gLI/AAAAAAAABXk/z_t9hA789hI/s320/IMG_0804.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">I had no feelings about Christine one way
or another, I was just intent on getting started. The track ran alongside the
walled gardens for a while, winding gently upwards until it reached a
crossroads where I took the track to Herbeys. This track sloped down into a
deliciously-cool, dark forest where birds sang, streams gurgled and a nasty horsefly
stung me on the arm.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">Then it was upwards again into the sunlight
and a view across the meadows to the glorious mountains beyond.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I finally reached Herbeys. I had been here
before, to climb the <em>colline des Quatre Seigneurs</em> and I knew I would be able to
see the <em>château</em> from up there. But I was too tired and too hot and too thirsty
to do that. So I wandered around the village looking for it ("easily visible
from the road" they said) and…I couldn’t find it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I do know that the <em>château</em> was once the
Bishop’s Palace, that it dates from the year 1310 and that it is now privately
owned. I also remember it being quite large so I had no idea why I couldn’t see
it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I splashed my face and arms in the icy
water of the village fountain and headed back to Eybens, my sturdy calves now
glowing pink in the late afternoon sun.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I may not have seen my beloved <em>châteaux</em> but
at least I hadn’t got lost - just slightly confused. Most important of all, I
felt - if such a thing is possible - both happily exhausted and completely revigorated.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">And that, after all, is what it's all about...</span></div>
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</span>Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-405964504487663775.post-8721556243932254632013-06-21T21:40:00.000+01:002013-06-22T06:49:59.444+01:00Faites de la musique!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In honour of the <em>fête de la musique</em>, our CLIS decided to surprise the rest of the school with a <em>batucada</em>. I don't know whether the awe on their faces was provoked by our rythmical prowess or the sight of my jiggling bingo wings but anyway - we had great fun...<br />
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Hannah, my eldest daughter, writes and sings her own songs:<br />
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And Abigail, my youngest, also tends to break into song at the slightest provocation, whilst wearing her mum's checked shirt...<br />
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My middle daughter, Rachel, is quite content to simply sit and listen...<br />
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...and very prettily, I'm sure you'll agree.</div>
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<em>Bonne</em> <em>fête de la musique!</em></div>
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Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-405964504487663775.post-36270532000319772812013-04-26T16:45:00.000+01:002014-06-07T23:00:21.268+01:00Spring in my steps<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Now that spring is here (sort of) I’ve been taking myself and my dodgy knees for a ramble or two in the sunshine. After all, isn’t fresh air and exercise supposed to be the best remedy for depression? No, wait - that’s fluoxetine…
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Anyway, fresh air and exercise works for me. My first outing took me to the <i>Marais de Seiglières</i>, a marsh situated at an altitude of 1150 metres, near St Martin d’Uriage. The spot was named after the <em>seigle</em> (rye) that was cultivated there in the thirteenth century and it is now classed as a conservation area.
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This was not an arduous ramble – more of a gentle stroll through pine forests and across spongy marshland. I passed through the ruins of a hospital dating from the eleventh century, its walls now low, moss-covered banks. Whatever the hospital was built for – some say it was a leprosy hospital – it was certainly huge. I stood there for a few minutes, trying to imagine the place echoing with voices and footsteps - but all I could hear was the joyful singing of birds and the soft rustlings of the forest…<br />
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As I walked down towards the large pond in the middle of the <em>marais</em>, I had to keep an eye on my feet for fear of stepping on the numerous copulating toads that were strewn across my path. Spring, of course, is the season of love and new beginnings although the cynic in me says otherwise. I don’t believe in Fairy Tales. I once kissed a Handsome Prince you know, and guess what he turned into?<br />
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I went home at the end of the afternoon, refreshed in body and spirit and very slightly sunburnt.<br />
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My next walk was to Mont Jalla, the small peak that rises between the Bastille and the Mont Rachais.
There are several tracks you can take and I took the easiest, because that’s the sort of person I am.<br />
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However, I had forgotten how noisy the place was. As well as the hordes of families with children and excited dogs, there was the constant drone of traffic rising up from the streets of Grenoble. And the closer I got to the top of the Bastille, the louder the rumblings from the <em>bulles</em>, the <em>téléphérique</em> that ferries people to and fro from the <em>Jardin de Ville</em>. <br />
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It was quieter when I finally reached the summit of Mont Jalla. I took a few minutes to wander around the <em>Mémorial National des Troupes de Montagne</em>, the war memorial built in the year 2000, and puzzle over some crumbling ruins perched on the cliff edge (the ruins were perched, not me). These turned out to be the remains of one of the world’s first industrial aerial tramways, used by the cement factory of the <em>Porte de France</em> to transport limestone mined from the mountain. What a shame. I had been hoping for something a little more romantic…<br />
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I took a different route down the mountain and sorely regretted it – the pun is intended. It was mostly stairs. Steep stairs. By the time I got to the <em>Jardin des Dauphins</em> at the bottom, I was hobbling.
After a few minutes groaning on a bench, I decided to forego my principles and take the bus home. My poor, poor knees.<br />
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It is dreary today and the sky is dark with rain. But as soon as the sunshine returns and my knees have stopped creaking, I'll be off again - with a smile on my face and Spring in my steps...<br />
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Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-405964504487663775.post-65014436124282696272013-01-26T18:15:00.001+01:002013-01-26T22:37:43.370+01:00Kicking up a raquette<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-z6r-I7Xo13k/UQQL56holcI/AAAAAAAABPA/4kNTsPapGr0/s1600/Copie+de+IMG_0140.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-z6r-I7Xo13k/UQQL56holcI/AAAAAAAABPA/4kNTsPapGr0/s320/Copie+de+IMG_0140.JPG" width="235" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">If you’ve read this </span><a href="http://french-windows.blogspot.fr/2006/12/winter-sports.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">post</span></a><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">, you
will know I am not a great fan of winter sports. However, I am an open-minded
type of gal so when someone suggested I try snowshoeing, I gamely agreed. I
imagined it to be a sedate activity with no chance of careering down a mountainside in a wildly
out-of-control fashion, screaming, as I tend to do whilst
skiing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The French word for snowshoes is
<em>raquettes</em>. If this conjures up a game of tennis, you wouldn’t be far wrong.
When the French began to colonize the cold regions of North America in the
seventeenth century, one of the ideas they adopted from the Amerindians was the
ultimate in sensible shoes. They called them <em>raquettes</em> because they resembled
the <em>rachètes</em> or racquets of the <em>jeu de paume</em>, the forerunner of modern tennis.
This gave them a great advantage over the English who didn’t realize until a
few years later that life doesn’t have to come to a standstill because of a bit
of bad weather. Judging from recent newspaper reports, they seem to have
forgotten again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The
French brought the <em>raquettes</em> back to France, adapting the shape to suit the
steep and rugged slopes of the mountainous regions where they used them for
practical purposes, like hunting or shepherding. It wasn’t until</span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"> the end of the nineteenth century that
snowshoeing was introduced as a leisure activity, by Henri Duhamel. Since the
mid-twentieth century, the sport has grown in popularity.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span> <span lang="EN" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zVNpjOY67uY/UQQMBPQWYeI/AAAAAAAABPQ/xEFcoiG5Uvo/s1600/IMG_0126.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zVNpjOY67uY/UQQMBPQWYeI/AAAAAAAABPQ/xEFcoiG5Uvo/s320/IMG_0126.JPG" width="320" /></a></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="line-height: 115%;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">So I set
off one crisp, bright morning, to try it for myself. I was told that if I could
walk, I could snowshoe. Well, yes, OK – I <em>can</em> walk but I don’t usually look
like a constipated duck while I’m doing it. Nor do I keel over every time I
want to turn around…so that premise is not strictly true.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="line-height: 115%;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Also, I
hate being cold. Despite the layers of vests, fleeces, thick socks and two
pairs of woolly tights, I was absolutely freezing. I just wished I’d smeared
myself with lard and stuffed newspapers down my trousers like I said I would…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="line-height: 115%;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Once in
the forest, however, these minor inconveniences melted away in the winter
sunshine. The scenery was breathtaking: swathes of sparkling, untrodden snow
billowed around me like a plump eiderdown; the air glittered with diamond dust and – oh! - it was so beautifully <em>quiet</em>. At any moment, I expected to see Mr
Tumnus trotting towards me playing his flute…</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-L2gHioSOaoU/UQQMQjz3H5I/AAAAAAAABPw/IsB9VZmk42k/s1600/IMG_0133.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-L2gHioSOaoU/UQQMQjz3H5I/AAAAAAAABPw/IsB9VZmk42k/s320/IMG_0133.JPG" width="240" /></span></a></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-ansi-language: EN;"> </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NqEFr-5KSm4/UQQL_LifCWI/AAAAAAAABPI/6Oetu_7p45I/s1600/IMG_0116.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NqEFr-5KSm4/UQQL_LifCWI/AAAAAAAABPI/6Oetu_7p45I/s320/IMG_0116.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ETsGjNzXvMs/UQQMJXvjv9I/AAAAAAAABPg/AX_Pg63vH_0/s1600/IMG_0129.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ETsGjNzXvMs/UQQMJXvjv9I/AAAAAAAABPg/AX_Pg63vH_0/s320/IMG_0129.JPG" width="320" /></span></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GJIZ4XWplmQ/UQQMOC-53-I/AAAAAAAABPo/Hg8mrHji7gU/s1600/IMG_0130.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GJIZ4XWplmQ/UQQMOC-53-I/AAAAAAAABPo/Hg8mrHji7gU/s320/IMG_0130.JPG" width="320" /></span></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="line-height: 115%;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">And,
yes. I did fall over, several times. But apparently, you are allowed to slide
down slopes on your bottom, so I affected a convincing nonchalance whenever I
did so. I think it worked…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="line-height: 115%;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I
waddled home, still freezing, aching slightly but very happy indeed. There <em>are</em>
magical places in this sorry world after all…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="line-height: 115%;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I’ve
been invited to go cross-country skiing next. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m looking forward to it, I really am. I’ve already
started stocking up on lard…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-405964504487663775.post-3711119814131240542012-11-13T01:20:00.001+01:002012-11-13T19:07:31.491+01:00Interesting Angles<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-r_arymRhpdE/UKGKwOXvNkI/AAAAAAAABLg/wxKShxjL5cM/s1600/les+angles+009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-r_arymRhpdE/UKGKwOXvNkI/AAAAAAAABLg/wxKShxjL5cM/s320/les+angles+009.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I am quite unable to resist the charm of
the Pyrenees…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I used to think that if you’d seen one
mountain, you’d seen them all – just some big pointy bits of rock covered in
snow and blocking the view. But when I went walking last summer in the <em>Pyrénées
catalanes</em>, I fell in love…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">So I returned during the Toussaint
holidays, not squished into a tiny caravan this time but installed in a cosy and
horrendously over-furnished flat in Les Angles. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Les Angles is a ski resort, apparently a
very expensive one but frankly a bit of a dump in November when everything is
closed. In fact, until the ski resort was created in 1964, it was a pretty grim
place to live. Farmers had to contend with the unyielding earth and the harsh
weather: I experienced for myself the biting wind called <em>le carcanet</em> which blows
from the north and shrouds the village in a heavy, damp fog. In 1961, the
population was a mere two hundred and fifty and the village was slowly dying.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Today, the old village still stands,
surrounded now by restaurants, nightclubs and intimidating sportswear shops
(well, they intimidate me). Here is the view from our balcony – behind the
village church, you can just about spot the <em>lac Matemale</em>…and beyond, the
glorious Pyrenees…</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Fc9os0lYdSI/UKGLLU7ncCI/AAAAAAAABLw/4AVPQ-c6zwY/s1600/les+angles+007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Fc9os0lYdSI/UKGLLU7ncCI/AAAAAAAABLw/4AVPQ-c6zwY/s320/les+angles+007.JPG" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Mkir5hz6C_k/UKGK-fB-FdI/AAAAAAAABLo/BB8MdlSh2lM/s1600/les+angles+006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We walked for hours, through forests,
around lakes…</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PS5UfuBl1AQ/UKGMCG0VZTI/AAAAAAAABMY/_zex6M2Xplo/s1600/les+angles+012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PS5UfuBl1AQ/UKGMCG0VZTI/AAAAAAAABMY/_zex6M2Xplo/s320/les+angles+012.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-D8nvVEhK9dU/UKGQGoFwxSI/AAAAAAAABNc/qxtypNUaQ6g/s1600/les+angles+002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-D8nvVEhK9dU/UKGQGoFwxSI/AAAAAAAABNc/qxtypNUaQ6g/s320/les+angles+002.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">…and to Les Iglesiettes and the ruined
hamlet of Vallsera. The inhabitants were wiped out by the Black Death in the
fourteenth century and all that is left now are lichen-covered boulders and
dry-stone walls the colour of old bones…</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NtVGJRQlkpk/UKGLgiScSdI/AAAAAAAABL4/V-oj7_VB0iE/s1600/les+angles+022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NtVGJRQlkpk/UKGLgiScSdI/AAAAAAAABL4/V-oj7_VB0iE/s320/les+angles+022.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WMQILXpMvh8/UKGPzAMsSPI/AAAAAAAABNU/KZmtjFTjfgI/s1600/les+angles+025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WMQILXpMvh8/UKGPzAMsSPI/AAAAAAAABNU/KZmtjFTjfgI/s320/les+angles+025.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Down the road from Les Angles is a <em>parc
animalier</em> where you can see animals which live – or once lived – in mountainous
areas. Fortunately, most of them were safely enclosed behind wire fencing…</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">…the marmottes, however, were already fast
asleep.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">A quick trip to Andorra, in the pouring
rain, rounded off the holiday. I was rather disappointed – it appeared to be
all banks and duty-free shops and people pushing trolleys full of booze and
cigarettes. A bit like Boulogne, really, without the sea…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I’m back in Grenoble now, back in the Alps.
</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><em>Il n’y a plus de Pyrénées</em> (to
quote Louis XIV) but I know it won’t be long before I return… <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-405964504487663775.post-24602612693441270002012-08-26T10:42:00.003+01:002012-08-26T14:00:05.364+01:00The Happy Camper<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve just spent a wonderful week squished into a tiny caravan
in the Pyrénées, at a lakeside campsite in Matemale. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It was perfect! Well...almost so...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We walked in the mountains in the
mornings, fizzed in the Jacuzzi and sweated in the sauna in the afternoons and
gazed at the stars at night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We climbed high peaks, paddled in icy
lakes, shivered in dark caves...</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We saw forest fires...</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">and we searched our souls.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Ah, yes. It was perfect.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Well. Almost so...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-405964504487663775.post-67915104322010447152012-07-09T15:19:00.000+01:002012-07-09T17:04:03.072+01:00Revel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I have recently returned from the set of
a Pagnol film.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">At least, that’s what it felt like,
although the accent was Dauphinois and everything was in colour, not in black and
white.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I spent the day in Revel, a village
perched in the Belledonne mountain range overlooking Grenoble. The morning sky
was a brilliant, gentian blue and the grassy slopes were warm beneath the sun.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">First stop was the two-hundred year old
bakery to meet the <em>boulanger</em>, Philippe and <em>La Femme du Boulanger</em>, Geneviève. I
watched as the baker weighed out flour, yeast and salt on a pair of scales that
looked at least as old as the bakery itself, then tipped it into an ancient
mixer the size of a hot tub.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">When ready, the dough was put into a
cold store to rise...all day. Fortunately, Philippe had prepared some kneaded dough
for me to form. Easy peasy, I thought, but of course, it wasn’t. I was
supposed to be rolling it into a long, thin sausage but by the time I’d
finished, it looked more like a giant pork chop.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Philippe came to my rescue and showed me
how to make a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tresse</i>, which he then
popped into the wood-fired oven.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">When he brought it out later, piping hot
and golden, I couldn’t help but wish I wasn’t intolerant to gluten. But – hey –
that’s life. Sometimes we have to do without the things we love...</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Mild masochistic tendencies led me to
visit <em>l'huilerie</em> - the walnut press - next, where that delicious walnut oil, which I can no
longer tolerate, is extracted. It opened in 1928 and supplied the locals with
oil for the next thirty years. It closed due to a decrease in demand but was
reopened in 2003 by a voluntary association, l’A.P.P.A.R.. The machinery is strangely
beautiful: solid, gleaming cast iron that has stood there for over eighty
years, dormant in summer but cranking into action from December through to
April.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Then a character straight out of <em>Jean de
Florette</em> walked in, blue eyes twinkling beneath his beret, to offer us a drink from
the spring on his land. Ah! <em>L’eau des collines</em>...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Finally, I visited an elderly couple who
lived on a smallholding. The old man showed me his peacocks and his enormous
rabbits then told me to take an egg from the henhouse. I did, marvelling at the
unusual rubbery shell.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“That’s the dummy egg,” said the old
man, bemused and slightly alarmed. Well, I <em>was</em> one of those queer folk, <em>les</em> <em>gens d’en bas</em> – it was
only to be expected.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I arrived home, weary and contented: the
experience had set me yearning for a simpler, slower existence. Yet I do realize
that life in the mountains is no Pagnol film. It is a harsh way to earn a
living, especially in winter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: FR;">Because, to quote Pagnol: <em>Telle
est la vie des hommes...<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
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<br /></div>Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-405964504487663775.post-86445266769960066142012-04-20T17:12:00.000+01:002012-04-25T20:56:11.873+01:00Paris in the spring<br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I have always dreamt of a romantic
weekend in Paris, in the spring.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Well, I never got it but recently, I was
able to experience the next best thing. It wasn’t romantic but it <em>was</em> in the
spring.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">One of my several jobs is as a classroom
assistant in a CLIS, which stands for <em>Classe pour Inclusion Scolaire.</em> These primary
school children have learning difficulties: dyslexia, dyspraxia, dysphasia and
so on. It is a rewarding job and I’m fortunate to be working with a dynamic
(perhaps hyper-active is a better term) and dedicated teacher called Isabelle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Isabelle decided it would be fun to take
the whole class to Paris, so we have spent much of the school year raising
money for the trip.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My role was to make cakes with the
children to sell. You’d think this would be quite a challenge, especially with
dyspraxic children. In fact, the headmistress put a stop to this project after
<em>I</em> nearly set the staff room table on fire. Please don’t ask...it’s a long
story...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We received donations from various
organizations and our local MP,</span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Geneviève
Fioraso, invited us to visit the Assemblée Nationale, one of the two assemblies
which, with the Senate, constitute the French Parliament. She came to talk to
us about it and our photo was in the paper. Hmmm. I never realized just how
short I was until I saw myself standing next to a ten-year old...</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We left Grenoble on Tuesday morning and
arrived in Paris just in time for lunch, which we ate in the Jardin des
Tuileries.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"> </span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;">This park was once an area occupied by workshops making
roof tiles (<em>tuiles</em>). In 1564, Catherine de Medicis created her palace garden
here and after the French Revolution, it became a public park. Frankly, though,
I had more important things on my mind: I’d left my picnic in the fridge at
home and I was really, really hungry, penniless and gluten-intolerant to boot... </span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Nevertheless, I jogged along to our next
rendez-vous: the National Assembly. This is housed in the Palais Bourbon, built
at the beginning of the eighteenth century by Louise Françoise de Bourbon, the
legitimized daughter of Louis XIV and Madame de Montespan. During the Empire
period, the neighbouring Hôtel de Lassey was joined to the palace by a gallery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It is sumptuous. That’s all I can say. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Next stop was the Eiffel Tower. The
children had been looking forward to this for months and were terribly excited,
although not as excited as a certain Erika Eiffel, an American woman who loved
the tower so much, she married it in 2007. Well, I can see the attraction:
tall, handsome, dependable and not likely to go wandering off when you’re least
expecting it...</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The following day, we went to the palace
of Versailles. The children were impeccably behaved despite our uninspired
guide who appeared to be visiting for the first time herself. The one anecdote
I <em>could</em> relate to was the story of the Galerie des Glaces. Apparently, it was
the first time people had seen themselves full-length in a mirror and some of
the more sensitive ladies promptly fainted at the sight. As I said, I can
sympathise, because I caught sight of myself a few times and felt distinctly queasy
(well, I <em>had</em> had a sleepless night, having to deal with midnight pillow fights,
homesickness and a broken bed which had been jumped on once too often).</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We visited the gardens with their beautiful fountains and also the Hameau de la Reine, a hamlet and working farm where Marie-Antoinette dressed up as a peasant and milked cows and sheep as a hobby.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">On the third day, we took in Notre Dame,
the Pyramide du Louvre, the Stravinsky Fountain, the Arc de Triomphe - which was closed – and the tacky
souvenir shops, which weren’t closed and which turned out to be the highlight
of the trip. Fortunately, I didn’t have any money – because I am an absolute
sucker for tacky souvenirs. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Ah, Paris in the spring! I may not have waltzed
beneath the moon on a <em>bateau-mouche </em>or been kissed in the shadow of Sacré Coeur but I certainly brought back some wonderful
memories and - oh all right, I admit it – just one teensy-weensy Eiffel Tower key
ring...</span></div>
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<br /></div>Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-405964504487663775.post-15589409781102428632011-11-02T18:04:00.026+01:002011-11-03T12:58:58.867+01:00It's not all bad<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mTssxOhJozk/TrF7lM85VmI/AAAAAAAABBY/F_u8twE-Gcs/s1600/chamrousse%2B063.JPG"><br /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ahFTjipqvLs/TrF6Xodg-xI/AAAAAAAABBA/gbAedU4GZw4/s1600/Affiche-chamrousse-Et%25C3%25A9-Hiver.jpg"><br /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ujym78i69es/TrF6QYpkOuI/AAAAAAAABA0/ArPGGWlvOqw/s1600/lemons.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 235px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ujym78i69es/TrF6QYpkOuI/AAAAAAAABA0/ArPGGWlvOqw/s320/lemons.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670447827749452514" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:hyphenationzone>21</w:HyphenationZone> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Tableau Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapedefaults ext="edit" spidmax="1026"> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapelayout ext="edit"> <o:idmap ext="edit" data="1"> </o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Due to personal problems – of which I’m sure you’ve heard quite enough – I haven’t written anything for a while. Actually, I’ve been waiting for someone to set my car on fire and although I <span style="font-style: italic;">have </span>had to rush down in the middle of the night a couple of times to drive it away from the blazing vehicles surrounding it, my car is still more or less intact. So nothing interesting to report there, I’m afraid.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">And I’m certain you have no desire to hear how daily life has become a metaphor, rich in symbolism, for my state of mind. How computers, cookers and fridges have turned against me, how my piano no longer plays F # or A, how the shutter in the sitting room refuses to close while the one in the bedroom refuses to open or how the front door handle now comes away in my hand because somebody tried to break in.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">And is it fair that in the third flush of youth, my body has started to fall apart? The ignominy of having to search for my glasses in order to read the small print on a packet of Cup O’ Soup! Gluten and nuts are devious devils…</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">As for my brain…well, I needed to do a bit of spring cleaning up there as it was getting a bit cluttered and I’m convinced this is the reason my memory is not what it was (as far as I can remember, that is). So I took myself and my arthritic knees off for a walk in the mountains.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The last time I went for a walk in the mountains, I nearly had to be carried down. Now, I have absolutely no problem walking <span style="font-style: italic;">up </span>a mountain – in fact, the only reason I haven’t climbed Everest before is because I hate getting my feet cold. However, as I have developed arthritis in both knees, walking <span style="font-style: italic;">down </span>feels like someone is sawing my legs off very slowly with a rusty cheese knife.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">So I had to buy walking sticks. Cool, technical-looking ones, of course, so people will think I’m a seasoned hiker rather than an arthritic old bag.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">And off I went to Chamrousse.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ahFTjipqvLs/TrF6Xodg-xI/AAAAAAAABBA/gbAedU4GZw4/s1600/Affiche-chamrousse-Et%25C3%25A9-Hiver.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ahFTjipqvLs/TrF6Xodg-xI/AAAAAAAABBA/gbAedU4GZw4/s320/Affiche-chamrousse-Et%25C3%25A9-Hiver.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670447952252959506" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Chamrousse is a ski resort perched above Grenoble in the Belledonne range of mountains. It was first mentioned in 1260, when it was referred to as <span style="font-style: italic;">Culmen Rufus</span> (Red Peak) and it appears on the map for the first time in 1744 although the discovery of Roman coins at the summit indicates that the Romans were familiar with the peak.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">After the creation of the Uriage spa in 1823, <span style="font-style: italic;">curistes </span>would regularly climb to the top of Chamrousse as part of their treatment. I’m not sure how efficient this was as the waters of Uriage are used to treat arthritis amongst other things. Perhaps it was just a scam by doctors to have their patients coming back for more?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The ski lift was built in 1952 and was deemed to be the safest and fastest in France, along with that of Courchevel. And of course, the Winter Olympics were held here in 1968.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qjcq0UC5loM/TrF7JK77NNI/AAAAAAAABBM/YRxXKa64kF8/s1600/chamrousse%2B062.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qjcq0UC5loM/TrF7JK77NNI/AAAAAAAABBM/YRxXKa64kF8/s320/chamrousse%2B062.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670448803320902866" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">My destination was the Lac Achard, a tiny lake above the resort and apparently named after a man who once owned a hut nearby. It’s an easy walk from the ski resort and at an altitude of 1 917 metres, the view is wonderful.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I sat in the autumn sunlight, contemplating the reflections playing on the surface of the water, and realised how fortunate I was to be able to enjoy such stunning scenery. My mind cleared and my problems suddenly seemed so insignificant…</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mTssxOhJozk/TrF7lM85VmI/AAAAAAAABBY/F_u8twE-Gcs/s1600/chamrousse%2B063.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mTssxOhJozk/TrF7lM85VmI/AAAAAAAABBY/F_u8twE-Gcs/s320/chamrousse%2B063.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670449284898182754" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Then I reached into my rucksack for the bag of delicious apples I had hurriedly packed for my picnic and pulled out…a bag of lemons.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:hyphenationzone>21</w:HyphenationZone> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Tableau Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapedefaults ext="edit" spidmax="1026"> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapelayout ext="edit"> <o:idmap ext="edit" data="1"> </o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;mso-fareast-language:FR;mso-bidi-language:AR-SAfont-family:";font-size:12.0pt;" lang="EN-GB">Is Somebody trying to tell me something?</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p>Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-405964504487663775.post-7096968865507546912011-08-30T10:55:00.007+01:002014-06-07T23:35:03.413+01:00Au voleur<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tLZ1Abo4uPk/Tly00aub7iI/AAAAAAAABAs/JDfkCGOjNBc/s1600/car%2B107.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}">
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</a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-C7mGqx0DEfA/Tly0rzYqyRI/AAAAAAAABAk/X9rxtRJy4A0/s1600/car%2B108.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-C7mGqx0DEfA/Tly0rzYqyRI/AAAAAAAABAk/X9rxtRJy4A0/s320/car%2B108.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646586697436809490" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>
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<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:hyphenationzone>21</w:HyphenationZone> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="//img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Tableau Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <br />
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<span lang="EN-GB">On Saturday morning, I was rudely awakened from my sleep by a neighbour shouting down the intercom “Madame, they’ve smashed your car, they’ve smashed your car! Get the police!”</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB">As I was wearing a henna-stained nightie, two shower caps and a woollen bonnet, I couldn’t rush down immediately. However, once my Golden Oak locks had been rinsed and dried, I nervously made my way downstairs with a feeling of dread.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">If I didn’t know better, I would say my car is cursed. The very first time I parked it in front of my flat, it got keyed. Then some drunken thugs backed into it, leaving a dent. Once, I had to call out the breakdown truck at two in the morning because the car just stopped as I was driving someone home. I still cringe at the memory of Mr Breakdown Man saying “Um – you’ve run out of petrol”. To be fair, I use LPG but nobody told me it needed petrol in order to run. Nobody ever tells me anything.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Then I had a violent tussle with a kerbstone in the rush hour and had to buy a whole new wheel.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">And now this.</span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tLZ1Abo4uPk/Tly00aub7iI/AAAAAAAABAs/JDfkCGOjNBc/s1600/car%2B107.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tLZ1Abo4uPk/Tly00aub7iI/AAAAAAAABAs/JDfkCGOjNBc/s320/car%2B107.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646586845436046882" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 223px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB">In fact, when I saw what they’d done to the car, I was relieved. Only the window was smashed and the radio-CD player stolen. Or rather, the <span style="font-style: italic;">façade </span>had been stolen. I’m a bit thick when it comes to practical matters and I hadn’t realized that the façade was detachable and I was supposed to take it off in order to prevent people smashing the window to steal it.</span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I know now.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I took photos, like the police told me to, using the last of my precious ink to print them and photocopy all the documents they asked for. Then I spent two hours waiting at the commissariat and reading every single copy of <span style="font-style: italic;">Femme Actuelle</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Auto Moto</span> before a policewoman took my statement. She was far more interested in the fact that I’d been born in Cambridge than looking at my photos and kept throwing oddly inappropriate phrases at me in broken English.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I finally got through to the insurance company who told me they didn’t need the </span><span style="font-style: italic;">dépôt</span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-style: italic;"> de plainte</span> at all and that they couldn’t reimburse the radio or – and I swear I detected a snigger here - suggest how to extract the George Benson CD.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Thank goodness for Golden Oak Herbal hair dye, that’s all I can say. The stress of living here is turning my hair completely grey…</span></div>
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Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-405964504487663775.post-89088502224898834972011-08-07T21:10:00.018+01:002011-08-20T15:27:39.175+01:00Notes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-81ILDwhgyCY/Tj78tS3QEOI/AAAAAAAABAc/TZJ2Qtpyvps/s1600/sheet.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-81ILDwhgyCY/Tj78tS3QEOI/AAAAAAAABAc/TZJ2Qtpyvps/s320/sheet.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638221638602330338" border="0" /></a>
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<br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:hyphenationzone>21</w:HyphenationZone> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Tableau Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I volunteered to play the piano in <a href="http://www.grenoblechurch.org/" target="_blank">church</a> </span>last Sunday. I have no idea what possessed me to volunteer, given my previous rabbit-in-the-headlights experiences. Although I can play the hymns perfectly in the emptiness of my own sitting room, I am invariably struck by the musical equivalent of Writer’s Block in front of an audience.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Child prodigy I was not. My piano teacher was a lonely spinster (am I still allowed to use that word?) whom I could manipulate into telling me her life story for the duration of the lesson. By the time the following pupil arrived, I had managed to avoid the piano entirely. So I saw no point in practising.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Probably the best-known composer for the piano is <span style="font-weight: bold;">Frédéric Chopin</span> (1810 – 1849), who was Polish. His father was French though and Chopin himself came to Paris in 1831 and stayed there for the rest of his life.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Now, he <span style="font-style: italic;">was </span>a child prodigy. Already composing at the age of six and giving public concerts when he was seven, he was frequently compared to Mozart and Beethoven. His success as a composer and performer led him to Europe, where he stopped off in Paris and settled there for good.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">In 1836, Chopin met the feminist author, George Sand, at a party. He didn’t fancy her much at first – in fact, he found her repulsive and asked, in a way that would do Prince Philip proud:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> “But is she really a woman?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Nevertheless, they became lovers. Their relationship was difficult as Chopin was often depressed and always ill. In 1847, Sand published a novel where one of the main characters bore a strong resemblance to Chopin and the portrayal was far from flattering. Chopin went into a big sulk and before the year was out, the relationship was over.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">He died aged thirty-nine of suspected tuberculosis.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Here’s a Chopin Nocturne: Opus 9, n° 1:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Llni1Dn-f4U" allowfullscreen="" width="425" frameborder="0" height="349"></iframe>
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<br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Camille Saint Saens</span> (1835 – 1921) was another child prodigy and he was simply brilliant at everything. He had perfect pitch and began learning to play the piano when he was two. He wrote his first composition aged four and he was five when he first appeared in public.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Saint Saens had learnt to read and write by the time he was three. At seven, he was studying Latin. He was also a scientist, a mathematician, a philosopher, a poet and a playwright.
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Oh – and he played the organ in church too, although I’m sure <span style="font-style: italic;">he </span>didn’t stop half-way through a hymn mumbling “Hang on, hang on, I can get this bit…”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Saint Saens married a woman half his age when he was forty and had two sons, both of whom died within weeks of each other. He blamed his wife for the second death (the child had fallen out of a window) and left her. She never heard from him again. The fact that he was rumoured to be homosexual might have had something to do with it too.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">He died of pneumonia in Algiers at the ripe old age of eighty-six.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Here’s the Andante from his piano concerto n°2:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
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<br /><span lang="EN-GB"><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/qSPW5OI0908" allowfullscreen="" width="425" frameborder="0" height="349"></iframe></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><span lang="EN-GB"></span> <span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Gabriel Fauré</span> (1845-1924) studied music at the <span style="font-style: italic;">Ecole de Musique Classique et Religieuse</span> in Paris. Camille Saint Saens was his piano teacher there and they became life-long friends. </span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">He also earned his living as a church organist but he didn’t get on very well with the priest. This is because Fauré used to sneak out between hymns for a crafty cigarette and when he turned up dishevelled one morning after a night on the tiles, the priest asked him to resign.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">In 1905, Fauré was appointed head of the <span style="font-style: italic;">Conservatoire de Paris</span> where his ideas were considered far too modern for certain members, who promptly left. It was also around this time that he started to go deaf.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">His love life was a bit of a shambles. Brought up by a wet-nurse and packed off to boarding school when he was nine, he wasn’t exactly familiar with normal family life. He married in 1883 but was hardly ever at home, due to his<span> </span><span style="font-style: italic;">horreur du domicile</span>. He also had several mistresses including the married singer Emma Bardac, who was also the mistress of Claude Debussy.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Fauré died of pneumonia in Paris at the age of seventy-nine.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The following clip should bring back comforting memories for those old enough to remember <span style="font-style: italic;">Listen with Mother</span>. Here is the Dolly suite…are you sitting comfortably?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> <iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/8WZ2-d54SEA" allowfullscreen="" width="425" frameborder="0" height="349"></iframe></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8WZ2-d54SEA">
<br /></a> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Claude Debussy </span>(1862 – 1918) was born in Paris. He started taking piano lessons at the age of seven and entered the <span style="font-style: italic;">Conservatoire </span>when he was ten.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">From the beginning, Debussy was a rebel. He rejected the rigid, traditional methods of composition in favour of unusual intervals and dissonances which shocked his teachers.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’m quite good at unusual intervals and dissonances myself so I can sympathise.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Between 1885 and 1887, he studied at the Villa Medici in Rome. He didn’t like it much there either and complained about the company, the accommodation and the food. He didn’t even like Rome and got quite depressed about it all.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">But his turbulent love-life surely provided relief from all that boredom. He was a heartless womaniser, having affairs with all sorts of women, including married ones. He left one girl for her best friend, Rosalie, a fashion model, whom he married. She turned out to be a bit thick and Debussy got bored again and embarked on an affair with the ubiquitous Emma Bardac (see above). When poor Rosalie found out, she tried to commit suicide by shooting herself and consequently most of Debussy’s friends turned against him. Well, he only had himself to blame…</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Debussy’s other claim to fame is that he was one of the first people to undergo a colostomy operation. He eventually died an unromantic death from rectal cancer at the age of fifty-six.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Listen to Two Arabesques:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/a0fap6JZaow" allowfullscreen="" width="425" frameborder="0" height="349"></iframe>
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<br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Erik Satie</span> (1866 – 1925) was born in Honfleur but moved to Paris when he was four. His mother was English (born in London to Scottish parents) and when she died in 1872, Satie was sent back to Honfleur to live with his paternal grandparents. When <span style="font-style: italic;">they </span>died six years later, he went back to live with his father, who remarried shortly after.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Satie’s step-mother was a piano teacher. Either she wasn’t a very good one or – more likely – Satie was a bad student. When he began his piano studies at the <span style="font-style: italic;">Conservatoire </span>in 1879, his teachers soon let him know he had no talent whatsoever and labelled him the ‘laziest student in the Conservatoire’.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">He was sent away for two and a half years, but was readmitted in 1885. Unfortunately, he was still deemed to have no talent, so Satie stormed off to join the army. He managed to stick it out for four months and then, desperate to escape, he endeavoured to catch bronchitis by sleeping outside in the middle of winter with no shirt on. It worked and he was discharged.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">He moved to Montmartre and began to hang out with all the arty types in <span style="font-style: italic;">Le Chat Noir</span> café-cabaret. During this period, he started publishing his Gymnopédies – he was, after all, more gifted as a composer than a pianist.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">In 1893, Satie met Suzanne Valadon, an artist’s model and an artist in her own right. After their first night together, Satie asked her to marry him. She wouldn’t and he became obsessed with her. She finally left him six months later and poor Satie was heartbroken. It appears to have been his only intimate relationship (so where was Emma Bardac when he needed her?).</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">He died, aged fifty-nine, of cirrhosis of the liver.
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">And on that cheerful note, I leave you with his Gnossienne n°1:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/ZsFvmfMa03E" allowfullscreen="" width="425" frameborder="0" height="349"></iframe><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZsFvmfMa03E">
<br /></a> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">By the way, the piano playing at church went very well. There were a couple of moments where I inadvertently slipped down a semi-tone or two, lending an interesting jazzy element to <span style="font-style: italic;">What a friend we have in Jesus</span>, but – hey - there’s nothing wrong with dissonance. If it was good enough for Debussy…</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /><span lang="EN-GB"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p> </p>Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442510440531817842noreply@blogger.com0