Magic27

It's the little things

2012-01-06T04:14:00.002+01:00

It isn't really a "little thing". It certainly doesn't feel like one, it feels like a huge, enormous thing. This evening, on three separate occasions, my dear, sweet C (who turned 10 at the end of December and is suddenly so very much not a little kid any more) said that, if she and L don't have their Sunday School class this week (it's alternate weeks, I'm not involved - D is the churchgoer - and just can't keep track of which week they have it, which they don't), she wants to spend the day with me and "do something with me". My heart melted, it truly did. She's often affectionate, and she still loves getting hugs and cuddles and kisses, but she's rarely (maybe never) shown such a keen interest in spending time with me just for the sake of being with me. I mean, if I propose something (not necessarily anything wild - it could just be making Christmas cookies together) and she wants to do that, then she wants to spend time with me. But this is different. She wants to spend time with me, pretty much regardless of what the "something" that we do is. And that has rarely happened before.

So, yeah. That's made me feel all warm and tingly this evening.

On a much more materialistic note, a truly little thing also made my day today: on the sale page of the Cath Kidston website (oh to have the money to truly kit out my home from that site...), I found an adorable fondue set for just €15, down 70% from €48... I know I'm flat broke and still in the throes of trying to sort out my catastrophic financial situation, but seriously: I have wanted a fondue set for years. I've priced them elsewhere but here in France at least (notoriously expensive when it comes to shopping, it has to be said) even ugly ones come out at almost double that. So, of course, I bought it, and it'll be arriving by post sometime in the next 10-14 days according to my invoice, but most likely much quicker than that now that Christmas is over. I'm sooooo excited! I adore fondue - cheese, meat, chocolate, all of them! - and I'm pretty sure even L, probably one of the pickiest eaters in the world, will like it too. And I know C will.

Obviously, making a fondue can't be the something we'll do together as my lovely fondue set won't be here in time (unless there is Sunday school this week, in which case it might be here for the next Sunday), but preparing one and eating one, just the three of us, could be a fun thing to do together.

And, finally, the third nice thing to happen today was that I got a call from a dear friend - originally "just" a fellow translator but soon a friend and even, for a while, C's wonderful daycare provider - whom I haven't heard from in several years. She had a translation job proposition (vaguely regular work, not particularly hard, possibly a little restrictive because of the short turnaround times) and thought of me. We chatted for about half an hour and have been invited - the three of us - to spend a day with her in Narbonne (where she now lives; the fact that she's left Montpellier is part of the reason we sort of lost touch). Really nice to be back in touch with her!

Can you tell that I'm trying to be upbeat this year?! No, seriously, things still aren't great, but today was a nice day with nice things, and I'll take that!

The New Year's Questionnaire

2011-12-31T16:29:00.000+01:00

New Year's questionnaire (again, again). But you know me, I can't resist a meme... so here goes.

Well, I was hoping that 2011 was going to be an improvement on 2010 and that this year's answers to these questions would be a bit more upbeat. But apparently it wasn't to be, so now all hopes are riding on 2012...

So here's my review of this pretty much craptastic year. Somewhat depressingly, many of my answers are in fact exactly the same as last year.

Thanks again to Linda for this...

1. What did you do in 2011 that you'd never done before?

Spend the entire year as a single mother. Funnily enough, I don't really recommend it...

2. Did you keep your new year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

I didn't really make any resolutions last year. As a result, I'll probably try and think up something vaguely attainable for 2012 (say, eating less crap or going to bed earlier) and hope I fare better

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

Not really. People I know from the girls' school (hey, it's a Catholic school...!), but not any close friends.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

No, thankfully.

5. What countries did you visit?

Scotland and Italy (though not in that order)

6. What would you like to have in 2012 that you lacked in 2011?

Same answer as last year - the love of a sane, intelligent, financially independent, funny, charming, sexy man

7. What dates from 2011 will remain etched upon your memory and why?

2011 was a non-specifically crappy year with a few good points, but no actual dates jump out at me, I must admit

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Not going bankrupt, apparently

9. What was your biggest failure?

Not managing to keep my life financially and emotionally afloat

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

Same answer as last year: Nothing except from horrendous allergies all the time, at their worst in February-March

11. What was the best thing you bought?

The two digital cameras I bought for the girls way back at the beginning of 2011 and gave them for Christmas - they were overjoyed!

12. Whose behaviour merited celebration?

Can't think of anyone in particular

13. Whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed?

As last year - my ex on occasion (though things are OK at the moment); in CelebWorld, many people get up my nose: Kardashians, LiLo, Mariah Carey, most footballers...

14. Where did most of your money go?

Trying to keep me and my girls afloat

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

I don't seem to have the ability to get "really, really excited" about anything, though I was happy to go on holiday to Italy with the girls in August, and again when my friend J and her family came to visit in July, and when another friend, D, came to visit in August

16. What song will always remind you of 2010?

There are several - Hot Chelle Rae's "Tonight, tonight", Simple Plan's "Jet lag" (the French version), Adele's "Someone like you", Colbie Caillat's "Bubbly", the Glee version of Stevie Nicks' "Landslide", the Glee duet "I feel pretty/Unpretty", and many others

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:

a) happier or sadder? About the same

b) thinner or fatter? Probably a little fatter

c) richer or poorer? Also about the same - too in debt, anyway

18. What do you wish you'd done more of?

Laugh, smile, see friends, go out, do things for me

19. What do you wish you'd done less of?

Cry, feel sorry for myself

20. How did you spend Christmas?

The girls and I travelled to see my dad in Scotland. We arrived late on 21 December and came home on 29 December (though we left Scotland the day before). It was nice, and the girls had a lot of fun.

21. Did you fall in love in 2010?

Hahahahahahahaha
22. What was your favourite TV programme?

I still enjoy Glee and the French version of MasterChef, but I also watched (on DVD) all 4 seasons of Mad Men and got really into that

23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?

No

24. What was the best book you read?

I didn't read many "new" books this year (I reread "comfort" books)
25. What was your greatest musical discovery?

Adele (though I'm hardly a groundbreaker, am I?!)

26. What did you want and get?

I asked for CDs by Adele ("21") and Lady Antebellum ("Own the night"), as well as a couple of books ("The Unbearable Lightness of Being in Aberystwyth" by Malcolm Pryce and "All of our Thursdays are Missing" by Jasper Fforde), and I was lucky enough to be given all of them

27. What did you want and not get?

Love and affection

28. What was your favourite film of this year?

I don't seem to see films any more

29. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I turned 42 (God help me) in May. To be honest, I can't really remember much about it. I know it was better than last year, but it certainly wasn't memorable

30. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

Being loved

31. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2010?

*snort*

32. What kept you sane?

Facebook (corny, but true), and seeing my closest friends

33. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

Pat Monahan - still

34. What political issue stirred you the most?

I'm still not really interested in politics, but the DSK scandal was at least entertaining

35. Who did you miss?

My friends in England - I don't see them nearly often enough

36. Who was the best new person you met?

Ummmm...

37. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2011

When the chips are down, staying up late watching YouTube videos and scarfing down chocolate is really only a temporary fix

38. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year

Same as last year: it's from Train's early hit, "Meet Virginia":

"She pulls her hair back as she screams, "I don't really want to live this life!"

Nightmare

2011-12-08T02:59:00.001+01:00

It's 2.45 am and I know I'm tired. But I can't go to bed. I just can't. Not tonight.

It's not unusual for me to up at this time of night; I've never been a morning person, and I've always enjoyed the peace and quiet of the wee, small hours. I remember writing essays at university at 4 am, I remember lying in bed listening to France Inter late, late at night when I was a student in Lyon. When the girls were very small, I had to work at night because it was pretty much impossible to get much done during the day.

Also, I'm not an insomniac. I have been, back in Lyon for example, when I just couldn't sleep, tossing and turning, night after night, until I'd get up before dawn and go and watch the sun rise from the steps of the Palais de Justice. But not now. Once I actually get myself to bed, I'm pretty much sure of falling asleep within a few minutes.

But tonight? I don't know.

You see, I had a dream last night. A bad dream. Probably the worst dream I've ever had in my entire life. A nightmare so bone-chilling that even thinking about it sends a shiver down my spine.

I've had nightmares before, we all have. Dreams that seem so real and that are so scary that you wake up breathless, in a cold sweat.

But this one was different. I don't remember the details - where, when, how - just the last few seconds before I shot awake, trembling and terrified.

I dreamt that I went into our bathroom and my beautiful girl, C, was lying in the bath, perfectly still, perfectly under the water. Lifeless. I dreamt I put my hands into the warm water and lifted her up, knowing full well that it was too late.

Oh God.

My hands are shaking as I type. It was so real. I could feel her damp skin, the coolness of it. I could see her long, blond hair floating out around her shoulders. Her lips were blue and her eyes were closed. She looked like she was sleeping. But I knew she wasn't.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

I don't really believe in premonitions, and she was perfectly fine all day (though she may have wondered why I kept hugging her so tight today...), but this dream has shaken me to my core. I feel sick. I'm trembling.

And now, I'm scared to go to sleep. Scared to have another dream like that.

My two sweet girls are the most important things in my life, the one true success in my life. I can't bear the thought of losing them.

I can barely keep my eyes open I'm so tired, and I'm going to be a wreck tomorrow, teaching all morning, working all afternoon. But I can't go to bed. I just can't.

Warning: moan-fest ahoy!

2011-12-04T05:27:00.000+01:00

I haven't been around much lately. It's not so much that I've been busy (though I have had things to do), it's more that I'm in such a damn funk that I a) couldn't be arsed to write anything and b) do, believe it or not, get tired of hearing myself whine all the time (so I can only imagine how dull it must be for you).

So. Yeah. Funk. And not in the music sense.

I feel totally overwhelmed by absolutely everything. I do stuff, all the time. I do a lot of stuff, even. But I never, ever seem to get anything finished. And my "to do" list is ridiculous, covering several pages. If I cross one thing off, it seems like I have another two or three things to add. And if I don't add them, I forget them completely. You wouldn't believe how many e-mails I have, unanswered, in my in box...

Everything is half-done. The son of one of my best friends back in Britain had his 8th birthday on 26 November. I bought a (small) gift a couple of weeks in advance, and a nice birthday card. Very organised. And, of course, neither have been sent, even though it's now 4 December. Both of my other friend, J's, kids had their birthdays too (one on 19 October, one on 7 November) and I haven't done anything about those either.

I've bought all my Christmas cards and addressed all the envelopes, but done nothing more. I've done some Christmas shopping (mainly for the girls, in fact), but not all. I have plans for projects with the girls - making Christmas cookies, making mince pies - but remain unconvinced that we'll actually ever get round to them. I always try and get the tree put up on or around 1 December, and I haven't even cleared a space for it yet. I could go on, but I'm sure you get the drift.

I've neglected the little amount of housework I ever do, I've been doing my food shopping on the internet once a month instead of every two weeks (and I can tell you, the week before I do it is a frugal week for sure). I'm way behind with my invoices, I owe money all over the place, I've stopped paying much attention to how I look (not that I paid much attention before, but even less now), I'm weeks behind on grading student translations, none of my paperwork has been organised or sorted or anything for months (it's just piled up in heaps around my desk). I haven't done my professional accounts since last December (fuuuuuuuuck) and I have a million (or so it seems) phonecalls to make.

The one positive thing I've done is make my decision regarding Christmas. I plucked up the courage and asked D what he thought about me taking the girls to Scotland and, of course, he was very positive about it (my mean-spirited self suspects he's plotting his revenge for next year). So I set to work and spent more hours than I care to admit on every cheap flight site ever. It took me forever, and cost me 900 euros. But we're going. And I am, for once, really looking forward to it - previous visits were always a little stressful because D and my dad didn't really hit it off and neither was good at compromising or letting things go, so they always argued. This time, though, with just me and the girls, it should be stress-free and fun. I live in hope.

Other than that, I almost broke down in tears on Thursday morning in the headmistress' office at the girls' school. I had a document to drop off and then a question to ask the headmistress about the school newspaper (I'm one of the 3 parents' association members responsible for putting it together). She asked me into her office, told me what I needed to know and then, changing subject rather suddenly, said that if things got too hard for me she was there, that she would listen and would do what she could to help me pay for school trips, or the school canteen, or whatever, in full confidence. I don't know how she knows how dire my situation is (no payments have bounced for ages), but I was incredibly touched and, as always when that happens, tears welled up. I managed to get out before the tears really started, but only just.

The truth is that I'm not coping at all right now. Everything - anything - can make me cry, and usually does. I long to have someone sweep into my life and take over. Deal with things. Make things right.

I have to try and believe that the shittiness of my existence will come to an end, that I'll get my shot at good times for once. But it's hard to believe when every new year starts so full of promise and ends with me counting the days till it's over. 2010 and 2011 have been particularly shittastic, it has to be said, but I don't dare say "2012 can only be better" because whenever I've said that, it hasn't been true (2011, case in point).

I'm sorry. This is one long, dreary moan-fest, and I know that. But it's 5 am (again), I feel like crap and I hate my ~~life~~ existence. I'm not suicidal, I swear, but I am, most definitely, struggling, and struggling badly. And the more I struggle, the more I become a homebody. If it weren't for school and teaching, I'd almost never leave the house; hell, I probably wouldn't leave my bed if I could get away with it (and remember - I've stopped opening my shutters in my bedroom, so it's like a cave. A messy, un-vaccumed cave).

If I catch sight of someone I know in the street, I pretend I haven't seen them and bustle off, trying to look like I'm in a rush. I never phone anyone (I've always hated the phone) and never make any attempt to see friends. I know it's not healthy; I know it's stupid, but I can't help it. I'm wallowing in self-pity (and a fair dose of self-loathing much of the time) and I don't want anyone to see that.

I snark and moan at the girls - who really aren't doing much to help, it must be said: they NEVER put anything away, never do anything to help unless I ask them a hundred times, never do what I say. I hate the way I am with them, but if they would play their part, it would make a huge difference - I feel like I have to do EVERYTHING for all three of us, plus the cat, all on my own. I don't ask much of them, just that they lay the table, for example, or clear it at the end of a meal, that they put away the clothes I wash, dry, fold and put on their beds, that they pick up their toys or games and put them away, that they turn off lights, that they put lids back on bottles and bottles back in the fridge, that they put on their pyjamas without me having to tell them... it's simple stuff and, given that C's almost 10 and L's over 7.5, I feel they should be able to do this. But they don't. They really, really don't. My dad noticed how little they do; friends have noticed too. I don't know where I've gone wrong, but I have. And it's one of the many things getting me down.

So there you have it. My wonderful life. I know I should be grateful for what I have - I have a home (for now, anyway) and a job, and two lovely, wonderful children. I'm healthy (as far as I know, though I haven't seen a doctor in about 2 years), I have friends (even if I make no effort to see them or even contact them for the most part) and I live in a lovely place.

But it's not easy to be grateful when there's so much crap going on. When getting out of bed is so difficult. When fetching my mail is so stressful (today, for example, I received my quarterly VAT bill (1,500 euros. YEAH!) and a threatening letter from the bank ("interdit bancaire" is looming large, I fear). Fantastic.

How am I supposed to "get into the Christmas spirit" or be "jolly"?

To be honest, I just want 2011 to end. I just want all this crap to go away, disappear, self-destruct. Because if it doesn't, then I just might.

Over and out.

It happened this morning

2011-11-17T03:18:00.000+01:00

My phone-alarm clock sprung to life way too early, as ever. The bright light it made as it squawked meant that I had an excuse for not opening my eyes straight away.

I stretched, trying my best to look more like a cute kitten waking up than a Kraken, but most likely failing miserably - my mother's genes have ensured that, true to her Scottish clan's heritage, I am most definitely not a morning person.

The sound of soft breathing by my side made me smile. No, for once, it was not my cat (you can't hear him breathe, for one thing). This was a human being. A living, breathing human being.

Holy crap. It wasn't a dream. There really WAS a man in my bed. A man, if the images running through my head were anything to go by, that bore more than a striking resemblance to Don Draper. Good job I was wearing my least-unsexy pyjamas.

Oh.

Wait.

"Wearing pyjamas" didn't sound right.

Surely, if Don Draper were in bed next to me, I wouldn't be wearing anything at all. I would be glowing, swathed in just a white sheet, my hair tousled yet fetching, my skin flushed and my eyes shining.

Hmmm.

That didn't sound right either.

I stretched again, willfully keeping my eyes closed. No, I wasn't imagining it. The breathing was most definitely there, and there was very clearly someone lying next to me...

I opened my eyes, slowly, scraping the morning crud away and peering murkily through the darkness. The form lying next to me was certainly human, but it didn't look quite how I imagined Don Draper would look. Blonder, for one thing. But I could (probably) live with that.

Yes, but not just blonder. Kind of shorter. A lot shorter. And skinnier. And -

Oh.

Fuck.

Not Don Draper at all. Not even a man.

A 7-year-old girl, my sweet baby L, who'd climbed into my bed at some ungodly hour after waking from a nightmare.

Fuck.

I swear, I love that little girl with all my heart. But at that moment, at that precise moment when I realised that my dream was just that, a dream, my deception at seeing her long, blond hair tangling over the edge of my pillow was monumental.

Sigh.

Autumn blues

2011-11-14T23:44:00.000+01:00

Still no solution to the Christmas question, mainly because I still haven't plucked up the courage to talk to D about it, but also because I am so overdrawn I can't afford to even think about buying flights (yes, my dad has said he'll pay for them, but by that, he means that he'll pay me back when we're in Scotland - weeks from now).

Still wishing it were 2 January, then.

The days chug by and start to all look and feel the same. Some days, I leave the house, others (many) I do not. Most days I spend way too much time at the computer. Every day - every.single.day - I long for the time I can climb into bed and slip into the fantasy world I've created in my head.

I cook meals, do laundry, wash dishes. I translate texts, prepare classes, mark homework. I hold my girls in my arms, kiss them, need them. I despair over the state of our home, screech like a harpy, cry.

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.

The autumn weather - despite being ridiculously mild - doesn't help. We've had endless rain, interspersed with only brief non-rain moments. The leaves are falling, mushing underfoot. The sky is grey, heavy with clouds, threatening rain. The air has the unmistakeable feel of dampness, decay, the dying of the light.

I feel pulled towards pretty, shiny things. Lovely things. Warm, delicious colours, inviting décors, comfort foods. Sexy men, cute animals, reassuring words. Thank God for Pinterest - the ideal place for seeking out beauty and comfort and fulfilment without spending a centime.

I'm an alien in just about every sense of the term (I don't actually come from another planet, though to most French people I guess Britain seems like one). A desperately poor, single, separated mother at a school full of rich, Catholic, happily-married couples. A freelancer that works hard, and is good at her job, yet can't earn enough to feed her family. A freak.

This coup de blues will pass, most likely once Christmas is over, once the days start to get longer again, once the sun starts to shine. But till then, all I want to do is hunker down and hibernate, leaving my lair only to gorge on chocolate and crappy TV.

Thank goodness there are music videos to watch and get weepy to...

Wanted: Good Carpenter and/or Zoologist

2011-11-07T03:09:00.001+01:00

So. An "épisode cévenol" happened. Or is happening, I guess. If you don't understand French (or can't be bothered to read the entire entry), an "épisode cévenol" can be succinctly explained as a metric shit-ton of rain, over a long period of time.

It's nothing unusual - it happens just about every year at this time - but, in a region where rain in general is rare, it always makes Montpellier feel rather apocalyptic. I swear, it's been raining - and raining heavily - for a week now. The mild temperatures make it feel tropical, but apocalyptic all the same.

Montpellier is a non-Roman city in a predominantly Roman-ruin-filled region (Narbonne, Béziers, Nïmes, Arles, Marseille, Orange...). As a result, and despite the mostly ignored, yet fascinating, Mediaeval history of the city, much enthusiasm is put into pulling things down and building lots of new stuff. The "best" example of Montpellier's folly is the "Antigone" district, a fake Roman district designed by a famous Catalan architect, Ricardo Bofill. The hideous (fake) Roman-style architecture and street plan is enhanced (or exacerbated) by streets with names such as "rue de Thèbes" and "place de Zeus". An American friend of mine who visited here this summer described this district as "Las Vegas without the casinos" and, while I've never been to Las Vegas, I've seen enough of it on film and TV (mmmm, CSI's Warrick Brown...) to find the description perfect.

Now, this enthusiasm for building could be good. With building work probably the n°1 employer, it certainly provides jobs in a city with one of the highest unemployment rates in France (the endless tramway construction work alone must employ about a billion workers). But the sad truth of the matter is that while the Mediaeval guys actually knew how to build things, the guys today clearly don't. So everywhere not Mediaeval (read: about 95% of the city) floods, every year. Whether it's because of incompetence or corruption, I don't know. But the fact remains: flooding, every year.

I tried to take the tramway out to Ikea yesterday (yes, I lead a wild and thrilling existence) and ended up waiting for over 40 minutes because roads were flooded and cars were stuck and said cars were moved "out of the way" on to the tramway tracks, blocking the trams. There are puddles about 6 feet wide (and 6 inches deep) on every street corner, the main square (Place de la Comédie) is certainly pretty with its (fake) marble slabs but is now a mildly flooded skating rink... Post isn't delivered, rubbish isn't collected, schools are closed (well, some of them - in an act of spectacular irrationality, the middle school attached to my daughters' primary school was closed by midday on Friday because of the "severe weather warning", but not the primary school (the two are on the same site). Go figure). 'Tis the apocalypse, spake the Lord. Or so it seems, anyway.

Now, as I've said, there's absolutely nothing unusual about this weather. It does indeed happen every year (often a little earlier than this, to be fair, more October than November). But this is a city that claims (in its tourist brochures) to get 300 days of sun a year, and I suspect that's a conservative estimate (the sun shines here a lot). A week of solid rain is soul-destroying, and impractical.

My laundry is draped all over the inside of the house in a desperate attempt to get it dry. Tom is miserable because he can't got out on to the balcony because he gets his paws wet if he does and he doesn't like that (I know, I know. But he's a delicate, refined little snowflake and he doesn't like wet paws). My rubbish chute is blocked up, possibly as far as the floor above me, because the guy who comes and takes the bins out hasn't been since Friday. My feet hurt from wearing rubber boots every time I go out.

There's only one possible solution: an Ark. But of course, I know bugger all about carpentry (unless there's an Ark in Ikea-kit form, I'm pretty good at Ikea stuff). So, if you happen to know a decent (preferably sexy) carpenter willing to build me an Ark, I'd be grateful if you could send him my way... (I'm having second thoughts about the zoologist: do I really want 2 of every animal on my Ark? How big would the damn thing have to be?! Tom, the girls, my sexy carpenter and I will be just fine on our own...).

Hallowe'en, Christmas

2011-11-01T17:35:00.001+01:00

So, that's another Hallowe'en over.

Hallowe'en is one of the few times of the year that I really regret being in France. For the French, it's an excessively American, over-commercialised, devil-worshipping thing that is to be shunned at all costs. There are no special Hallowe'en candies to be found in shops, no one dresses up (OK, some people do, but you don't see people in the street), there's no tradition AT ALL for trick-or-treating and the whole thing is a bit of a damp squib to be honest. I really miss the fun of Hallowe'en in Britain...

That said, there's an English school just down the road that organises a free party for anyone who wants to turn up and, whilst it's undoubtedly chaotic, it IS free, so we always try and make an appearance. Plus, it's the only chance the girls get to dress up in Hallowe'en costumes...

This year (like last year, actually), C dressed up as a vampire bat, and L went as an actual vampire (I used her Zorro cape and painted her face - I was really proud of the result!). The party was more disorganised than ever this year, and none of the girls' friends were there, so it was a bit of a let down. The other kids - being more pushy than mine - grabbed most of the candy on offer, so C and L got virtually none, and the "costume catwalk" resulted in L sobbing again (not so much because she didn't win, but more because C won AGAIN (she wins something every year)).

For supper, I had pumpkin soup and chestnut mousse for dessert in an attempt at autumnal fare, but I don't know. It just doesn't feel like Hallowe'en here.

But now, it's over and all thoughts will be turned towards Christmas (as I write, C is trying to put together a cardboard nativity scene she found in a book...). And my stomach lurches.

Back in my "before" life, we always alternated Christmases: one year at my dad's in Scotland, one year here at home with D's mother visiting. Last year - our first Christmas as a separated couple - was a "D's mother visiting" year, so we stuck with that and all was well.

But this year is supposed to be a "at my dad's in Scotland" year and I feel kind of sick. I would very much like to go to Scotland. My dad would be thrilled if we came, and the girls are more than enthusiastic. But.

Oh, BUT.

If I take the girls to Scotland for Christmas (and C's 10th birthday, on 27/12), D will be on his own. And, whilst I couldn't give a toss about him being alone (no skin off my nose), I know that it means that next year, he'll take the girls to Paris to be with his mother and I'll find myself totally alone for the entire holiday, and I don't think I could face that. I can't bear the thought of not being with my girls on Christmas day, on C's birthday.

So, I still haven't mentioned this problem to D, even though if flights are to be bought, they need to be bought now (it may already be too late for some cheaper options). I feel sick at the thought of discussing this with him because I know how he'll react, I know he'll get his revenge next year.

I'm still so angry with him. And I still can't understand why I have to be "punished" with not seeing my children at Christmas when he's the one who left, who walked out, who screwed up our family. I know that's a biased view (and one he most certainly doesn't share) but still.

I can try and reason with him that my dad is old (80!) and that there won't be many more opportunities for Christmas at his place; I can emphasise the fact that the girls want to go and that I'm the one dragging my feet (on HIS behalf); I can explain that my cousin wants to take them to Glenshee to try skiing for the first time; I can say that we'll make the trip as short as possible so he can spend the rest of the time with them. But it won't cut it, I know it won't. He'll seek revenge, and it will be terrible (for me).

I don't care that he might have to spend Christmas eve, Christmas day and C's birthday on his own, in his sordid little bedsit. I couldn't give a shit about that. I just don't want to have to be alone next year. Even if the girls and I get to celebrate Christmas and C's birthday after the event, it wouldn't be the same.

I wish I could fast forward to 2 January 2012.

NaBloPoMo

2011-10-28T04:15:00.000+02:00

I have been pretty...er...absent these last few weeks, it has to be said.

First, things have been busy round here (and when they haven't there has been much sleeping to catch up on). Second, I fell down the Pinterest hole and found myself "losing" hours and hours of my time "pinning" pretty, shiny things or pretty, shiny men on to one or other of my various boards. And third, I'm a lazy cow when it comes to this blog - partly because I know few people read it, partly because if I really talk about what's on my mind, it would turn into a dull (duller, I mean), dreary, woe-is-me, my-life-sucks moan-fest. And yeah, I'm not wild about THAT idea. (Even if most of it is true. My life truly SUCKS right now.).

So, when I saw this:

on Kelley's blog today, I couldn't help but smile. I've tried NaBloPoMo in the past (and even succeeded once or twice, I believe). But it really is incredibly hard for me to post every day and I think it's probably extra hassle I don't need right now.

I will be trying to post a little more often than in recent times - more than 3 times in the month, anyway - but I'm not signing myself up for the stress of having to post, when all I really want to do most evenings is lust after Gary Dourdan on CSI or watch MasterChef (French version, of course).

Accent

2011-10-18T00:10:00.000+02:00

There's an "accent" vlog thing going round the internet right now. I've watched a few of them and find them fascinating. Now, to be fair, I'm not particularly good at identifying American accents (for me, you could summarise them as "New York", "south" and "the rest", which is pretty shameful, I admit), but the ones I've listened to just sound "American" to me, nothing more.

Now, this accent thing is pretty much like a meme - and you know I can't resist a meme! Also, I have only seen American versions of this so far, so the idea of doing a British version really appealed.

So, for your enjoyment, I now present you with Magic27's accent vlog. All I ask is that you:

a) Ignore the mess you can see behind me. I clearly didn't put much thought into this - hey, it's midnight, I'm tired! - and didn't think to tidy up (or do cosmetic tidying) behind me...

b) Also ignore my obvious ill-at-easeness - I loathe being filmed, I loathe hearing my voice (I always sound like I have a shitload of marbles in my mouth or something).

I hope you enjoy it!

How I plan to win the Nobel Prize for Physics (or something)

2011-10-10T22:42:00.000+02:00

*blinks*
*squints at the light*
Errrr... hello? Anyone still out there?

Sorry to have been MIA for so long. Things have been kind of hectic, kind of tough of late and I just haven't found the time or energy to write here.

BUT - I have made a HUGE discovery. Yes, really.

I've figured out why the chances of me staying single for the rest of my life are so high.

It suddenly hit me, a couple of weeks ago. And the reason is so stunningly simple that I don't quite understand how I didn't figure it out before...

OK. Here goes. The Magic27 Theory of Relativity.

Back in the summer, I half-heartedly signed up to an online dating site (by which I mean that I didn't pay the subscription fee (can't afford it anyway) so can't really see the profiles I'm sent, but do get a sort of summarised version) and I get an e-mail from them every day or so, presenting 3 "likely" candidates. As I said, I don't have full access to these profiles but it doesn't matter. I just can't imagine EVER contacting (or even WANTING to contact) any of them. And a couple of weeks ago I tried to figure out why NONE of the men even vaguely appealed, even though many of them seem like perfectly nice guys.

And it's so simple - the "me" that I imagine is the "real" me isn't actually the "real" me at all. What I mean is that the online dating site is sending me the details of men who are in their 40s, guys with a sensible job and hobbies and stuff, and most of them have children, etc. And that's totally reasonable on the part of the site BECAUSE THAT (apparently) IS THE "REAL" ME (well, some of it, anyway). But in my mind (in my fantasies), that's not me AT ALL. In my mind, I'm still young (late 20s, say) and so the thought of "dating" a guy in his 40s is pretty much repellent (an exception could, of course, be made for either Johnny Depp or Pat Monahan or Jon Hamm). When I see a guy on TV, or in a film, or a magazine and think "hmm, he's cute" and start having little fantasies about this guy and me on a romantic date somewhere, the guy in question is ALWAYS a young guy.

At the same time, if I DO manage to put myself into my "real me" mindset (like if I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror, God help me), the idea of dating a guy in his 20s or early 30s is equally repellent (so young! so very, very young! and not in a good-right-for-me kind of way!).

I know it's all relative, this young-old thing. But seriously, a guy in his 40s seems sooo OLD, whereas a guy younger than me seems sooo YOUNG. And I've known for a long time that I don't really look the way I (like to) think I look, which certainly doesn't help and makes for some rather disappointing moments. I just can't seem to assimilate that I'm really, for reals, 42 years old, with 2 children (one of whom will be going to middle school next year) and a mortgage and what have you.

It's a recipe for disaster - or solitude, anyway.

S = (RM + FM)/IYOC,
where S = solitude, RM = real me, FM = fantasy me and IYOC = incompatible young-old conundrum.

But this monumental discovery might be worthy of a Nobel Prize, perhaps. And that would certainly help my increasingly dire finances (wolves at the door, people, wolves with big, sharp teeth at the door). I'll let you know if I get the call from Sweden...

Oh, and by the way, I can't believe it's a coincidence that the answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe and Everything is 42 and that, right now, I'm guess how old...

Remembering

2011-09-11T22:52:00.000+02:00

I know everyone's done a "where I was" post for this day, but I'm still going to do mine too.

You see, for totally personal reasons, 11 September 2001 had been marked down as a potentially "bad day" in my diary for weeks before it happened. No, I'm not psychic. But when I woke up that morning, I had a knot of fear and anxiety in my stomach, my heart was racing and felt like it would fly out of my body at any moment, and I couldn't concentrate on anything.

On 13 July 2000, my first daughter was stillborn. I had been exactly 145 days pregnant. I'm not going to go into THAT story again, as it's already been written and isn't appropriate for today.

When I found out I was pregnant again, in 2001, I knew that the baby had been conceived on 19 April, the day my then partner flew back (oh, the irony!) from NYC, where he'd been on a short work contract. Naturally, my second pregnancy was fraught with stress and fear and panic. I was terrified of having to go through the same pain and loss a second time, scared that if I did, I wouldn't make it out the other side and would most likely implode.

Equally naturally, I calculated when I would be 145 days pregnant, and set my first goal for the day after.

You've guessed it. I was exactly 145 days pregnant on 11 September 2001.

A colleague and friend in Lyon phoned me at about 3 pm (French time) that day. He said little on the phone, telling me just to put the TV on because something terrible was happening.

When I turned the TV on, the images showed the first plane and the voiceover was speculating as to how and why... Just as the second plane hit.

I sat glued to the TV all afternoon, all evening. Tears flowed, friends joined D and I to watch the coverage, there was fear in the air, and the night felt electric. Everyone was shocked and anxious, everyone was conscious that things had changed.

That night, I started having contractions. After all the stress and anxiety of the day, the contractions may have been inevitable. But for me, I was instantly thrown back to "my" 11 September, and I freaked out. D called the emergency doctor who said I had to go to the city's main hospital. I cried and wailed, unable to bear the thought of returning to that place, that place I'd hated so. D was pretty wonderful that night, explaining how traumatic that would be for me, and eventually a place was found in a maternity clinic, much nearer to our home and where both my daughters would eventually be born.

The contractions were monitored all night, I was given a drip of something to stop them, the midwives were on the phone to my adorable gynaecologist on and off constantly. They all told me that many women had gone into labour that night. Unsurprisingly, that didn't calm me down in the slightest. Gradually, the contractions started to ease off. The danger had been averted.

As I lay in that hospital bed, praying with all my might that my baby hang in there, and grow, and be all right, the images on the TV in my room showed the horror of what was happening in NYC and DC and Pennsylvania. My personal woes seemed quite pathetic in comparison, even if they were all-consuming.

I shared a room with a woman who gave birth to her little Ruben on 12 September, and she was so happy to have had a long labour, so glad he hadn't been born on "that" day. We discussed the events going on around us, putting our events somewhat into perspective, yet still wholly focused on our own lives.

The head ultrasound guy, who knew my "history" and that my doctor had booked me in for a week's stay to calm me down and reassure me, made me so angry when he said he didn't like England or the English (though he claimed to love the Scottish) because of their arrogance and bad cuisine and lack of elegance and poor sense of humour. I was upset enough because of my own circumstances, but still managed to tell him what I thought of his blatant racism, misplaced at any time, but especially at a time when racism abounded, when conflicts were being concocted, when we should all have been trying to show tolerance and understanding, compassion for our fellow man.

That second pregnancy ended well. My sweet girl, C, was born on 27 December, 4 weeks early, painfully small, hypoglycaemic and ailing. She's now just started 5th grade and is a tall, slim, willowy blond with mischievous blue eyes. She's smart and funny and loving and creative and beautiful beyond my wildest dreams. "My" 11 September ended well.

I'll never forget that day. I had been dreading it, dreading another disaster for me, but was saved. So many others were not as lucky. I didn't really know anyone who died, though there were people who did that I'd known by sight when I was a student. It was one of the most terrifying days I've ever lived through, and the haunting images of the people on the roof of the WTC, or jumping from the windows, or in the streets, will live with me forever.

The sun rose on 12 September and the world was a different place. My world was far from serene, but there was a sense of "it's going to be OK" for me, mixed in with so much fear for the world at large. A few days later, a chemical factory in Toulouse exploded, killing many and sparking further panic. It was as if the whole world had gone crazy.

And still, my sweet girl grew, safe inside me.

I was lucky that day. I was lucky that year.

But.

I'll never forget that day.

No longer MIA

2011-09-02T17:27:00.000+02:00

The much-feared (by me) 9-week school summer holiday is almost over. The girls start back on Monday morning, C in her last year of primary (5th grade), L in her second year (2nd grade). I think we're all ready for it.

It's not that it's been a terrible summer. Not at all, in fact. August was pretty cool, even. The first 3 weeks of July were the toughest, by a long way, but seem such a long time ago now that I can barely even remember how miserable they felt (and "miserable" might be a bit of an exaggeration, too, to be honest).

So no, I haven't hated the summer at all. But the girls are bickering more and more, and they definitely need a stricter routine. Plus they're desperate to see their friends.

For me, September will be a hectic month. I have to go to see a solicitor on Tuesday with D to talk about buying him out with regard to this flat. I'm dreading it. We've already had a bit of a tiff, in fact - he contacted "his" solicitor (actually the one we used together to buy the place) and told me she would contact "mine" to make sure she could be there. Then D of course informed me (just a few days ago) that a) he never said that (his standard retort) and b) I would have to invite "my" solicitor myself. And of course, at such short notice, she's not free. I'm furious, and can't help but feel that's not a good start to the negotiations.

Teaching will also be starting up again, which means meetings and preparing stuff and actually getting out of the house from time to time. Which will make a change, I must say.

And my dad's been here since 24 August, which is both nice (I do like to see him, honestly) and driving me batshit insane. I suspect he and I are too alike in character - impatient, intolerant (of slowness, inefficiency, for example) and prone to flashes of anger - for us to get along for any considerable length of time. And the fact that his deafness is now a real handicap doesn't help. Luckily, he's spending 2 of his 3 weeks here down at the beach (this week with the girls all the time and me every other night, next week on his own).

Of course, contradictory, pessimistic little flower that I am, the end of the summer also gives me a bout of the blues. I HATE winter, really, really hate it, and it's already September so winter isn't far away... OK, I know, it can stay pretty mild here till mid-December, but it can also be wretched (by south of France standards, admittedly) by the end of October... I do enjoy the heat and the sun and the freedom of summer: no multi-layering of clothes, no struggling to keep warm.

Looking back on the last 9 weeks, I'm struck by how fast it's actually gone, and yet how slow too. 1 July feels like an eternity ago. Even seeing my friend J - only one month ago - seems distant. And Italy. Ah, delightful Italy... It's hard to imagine that that delight even happened at all... maybe it was just a dream?

So there you have it. The summer is over (as far as holiday is concerned), I've actually been "back at work" for 3 weeks already (I only took 2 weeks off) and all the back-to-school stuff is ready for Monday morning.

I have to admit to being pretty excited about the new school year too - can't wait to catch up with friends, see which class my girls will be in, with which teacher, which kids. I just hope it's a good one.

Cringing with embarrassment...

2011-08-18T20:42:00.000+02:00

By popular request (if one request can be described as popular), here is photographic evidence of something I mentioned in my previous post.

*Sigh*

I can't quite believe I'm going through with this (I'm a shy, retiring little flower in reality), but well. Here goes:

If you ignore the mess behind me, I'm reasonably satisfied with this photo (mainly because you can't see my face or thighs...).

Voilà. That's one less mystery in the world.

25 things the internet doesn't know about me

2011-08-18T14:33:00.002+02:00

Yes, of course this is a meme I picked up from Avitable... and one of the things NOT on this list is my inability to ignore a meme...

Anyway, here we go:

1. When I was 6-7, I attended a very strict school in the south of Scotland and was the only girl in the entire school (it was an interesting experience, to put it mildly).
2. During my time at that school, I had the palm of my right hand smacked with a metal ruler by the teacher as part of a punishment meted out to the entire class. It hurt like hell.
3. The only PE class I consistently enjoyed was also at that school - the boys all played rugby, but for once my mother put her foot down and refused to let me do that (thank God), meaning that I ended up playing badminton with the headmaster's wife every day. Fabulous.
4. I'm not a particularly spiritual person, yet I know that the night my beloved aunt died, way back when I was 21, and far from both my home and hers, our souls connected - she died at the exact same time I was lying on the floor of the jazz club in my university town (held in a fabulous old building with stained glass windows) in a pool of moonlight reflecting through the stained glass. I felt peaceful. (Don't ask why I was lying on the floor...)
5. I cannot ever imagine being able to eat oysters.
6. I love junk food, even though here in France it's virtually treason to admit to such a thing. Meaning I don't eat it very often (probably a good thing). But the cravings are there...
7. I love trashy TV shows, even though I'm pretty much an intellectual snob.
8. Oh yeah, I'm an intellectual snob!
9. I don't think I actually know what it feels like to be truly happy.
10. One of my biggest fears for my girls is that their love lives will be like mine - non-existent for way, way too long (never even went on a date till I was about 21, never got a Valentine's, never got asked out, never heard that anyone had a crush on me), then intense and exclusive for a long time, and finally back to being alone again.
11. I feel woefully unsuited to explaining the finer points of boy-girl relationships to my girls.
12. I am hopeless when it comes to putting on make-up (which is why I rarely wear any).
13. I didn't learn to swim till I was 30.
14. Since learning to swim, I've almost never been in water and am now back to not being able to swim again.
15. The thing about how you never forget how to swim is CRAP.
16. I have always wished I were more athletic.
17. When I was in primary school, I wished my name were Wendy.
18. I would love to learn to dance the salsa and the tango.
19. I hate my skin - both its colour (white as hell, prone to bluish and orange splotches in cold weather, bright redness in hot weather) and its extreme sensitivity.
20. I passed my driving test in 1990 and have essentially never driven since (I've mentioned this before), but am hoping to find the money to take a few (a lot of) "refresher" lessons sometime in the next 12 months.
21. I have never owned, nor ever wanted to own, a dog.
22. I am pathologically terrified of dentists (because I have big gum problems) and haven't been for longer than I'm willing to admit (because I have excellent - but ugly - teeth, no fillings, no bridges, no crowns).
23. I haven't ridden a bicycle since I was 19.
24. I think I have a pretty good rack (apart from the whiteness of my skin, of course), and it's almost certainly the part of my body I find the least offensive.
25. I often feel guilty for not missing my mother because we didn't have a bad relationship. Yet I don't miss her. At all. (Though I do miss having "a mother", just not mine.)

I've just read these back, and now suspect that I sound like a cold-hearted basket case. Which may be partially true, actually (I would baulk against "cold-hearted").

Ah, Italy. You divine creature, you!

2011-08-17T01:21:00.000+02:00

*Sigh*

Oh, seriously people, if you get the chance to go to Italy - GO! It's such a beautiful country, even the grotty bits. Italy shines and sparkles and twinkles and entices you in. It scrambles into your heart and won't let go.

The girls and I took the train - cheap, but ridiculously time-consuming, given the distance: 4h20 to Nice (but oh! the scenery...), then hang about a bit there, then 50 mins to Ventimiglia (via Monaco and St Raphaël and Cap d'Ail...), then hang about there for a longer bit, then just over 2 more hours to Genova.

We splurged on a taxi to the hotel, we arrived at our hotel in style.

Words fail me. Our room looked out over what should have been a pretty grim site: dockyards, a cloverleaf junction and flyover, cranes. But even that was glorious. We looked directly on to the famous Lantern, dating back to God knows when (but pre Christopher Columbus, anyway, waaaaay before), the sun was setting, the sky was blue and green and orange and pink, the cranes looked like giant red and white giraffes. It was stunning. Of course, I didn't take a picture. But I did take one the day we left, early, early in the morning:

I know it doesn't look much (I guess I take rubbish pictures) but I love this juxtaposition - the ancient Lantern, the modern docks. The sea stretching out in the background. Swoon.

We stayed for a week, and it flew by. We did so many things, yet still have so much more to visit next time (and yes, there will be a next time, I hope). We ate pasta and pizza and icecream (not together, you understand). We stroked sting rays. (Stroked. sting. rays!!!) We went into a real submarine. We visited the house Christopher Columbus grew up in. We visited the pirate ship made for Polanski's film. We went up in a panoramic lift thing ("Bigo"), 40 m above ground, with spectacular views over the city:

It was a magical, magical week and I am soooo glad we went. Yes, my debts are suffocating me (direct debits being refused, credit cards blocked...) but it was worth the expense, truly worth it. Especially as we didn't spend very much at all (thanks to my dad giving me money for my birthday and me squirrelling it away).

Ah, Italy. Would that I could return RIGHT NOW.

Soon, my friend, soon. I will be back. My heart belongs to you.

Ciao, Bellissima!

Andiamo!

2011-08-08T00:27:00.000+02:00

Everything is, once again, a bit last minute. I didn't even go and see our neighbour about looking after Tom till 8 pm (no idea what I would have done if she couldn't have done it...). But I'm just about ready.

The bags are packed, the tickets bought and verified and put in my hand bag; the laundry has been done, so have the dishes. I've cleaned out the fridge of all the stuff that needed to be thrown out/given away. I've cleared my e-mail in-box down from about 900 mails to less than 150; I've noted down addresses for future postcards.

We're almost ready! I just need to make our picnic, check bus times to the station for tomorrow morning, nip round to the post office with invoices needing to be sent out, have my shower and sleep.

If all goes to plan, this time tomorrow, the girls and I should be fast asleep in our beds in the Novotel in Genoa. I am beyond excited, I really am.

I also booked a 2-week holiday for my dad in an apartment in Palavas for the last week of August/first week of September. The girls will most likely spend the first week with him, but then they go back to school so he'll be alone for the second one (though after a week often on his own with the girls, he'll almost certainly need it!).

I'm kind of looking forward to it, though I feel sick at the thought of having to ask him to give me all the money I need to pay D his "share" of my flat. It's a huge amount of money and, even though it will mean that the flat is finally in my name only, it's still basically a huge gift to D. Especially as the solicitors' fees are almost half again.

The thing is, D is making noises about this again - talking of arranging meetings with solicitors and so on, so I know I can't put it off much longer. I did vaguely broach the subject the last time my dad was here, and he seemed OK with it. But it's not so much that I'm scared he'll say no, it's more that I'm so embarrassed at being such a huge failure in life that I can't even pay my ex his share of this flat (bearing in mind it amounts to only about 10% of the value of the whole place).

But I'm going to try and stop thinking about that for now. I want to focus on what I hope will be a good week ahead - I love Italy, some of my favourite holidays have been in there and I'm sure this one will be just as good.

Andiamo!

BH12

2011-08-05T22:42:00.000+02:00

About a year ago, I said I would very much like to attend BlogHer 2011. It's currently taking place in San Diego and - in case you hadn't guessed - I'm not there. As the weeks passed, it became increasingly obvious to me that there was just no way on earth I could possibly afford to go to San Diego for 5 or 6 days (for one thing, west coast USA requires hideously expensive flights and layovers and bla bla bla).

Sure, I'm bummed because I would love to be there, love to actually meet some of the people whose work I enjoy so much, let my hair down, have fun, meet new people. But if I'd been in San Diego, I wouldn't have seen my friend J, and her visit has done me a lot of good, I must admit. But still.

However, according to the BH11 attendees on Twitter this afternoon, it has apparently been announced that BlogHer 2012 will be held in New York. That is a much more realistic target for me - yes, it's still a big expense, but at least it's east coast (6 hours away, rather than, oh, I don't know, 12 or something), and it's probably the best-served US city with regard to flights from France. I'm excited at the possibility, I really am.

I've only been to the US once (and that was NYC too), back in 2001, and I loved it. Really, really loved it. I'm going to try and start saving as soon as I have climbed out of my current debt hole. Even just saving €50 a month would pay for the flight (maybe).

That's going to be my target, my goal and my motivation for the coming weeks and months. Funding my trip to BlogHer 2012 in New York City.

Wish me luck!

High and low

2011-08-03T23:33:00.000+02:00

It's amazing how the first word from my friend J, the first hello at the Comédie this morning when we met up, sent all my money worries scattering from my head like shards of a glass the falls on ceramic tiles.

We didn't do much of anything today, but I nevertheless managed to forget my worries, forget my stress and just soak up the pleasure of being with J and M, two amazing, wonderful and delightfully normal people, with whom I most definitely feel more comfortable than I do with anyone I know here.

We met at about 11.30, bought a picnic, bought a postcard at the Musée Fabre (Frédéric Bazille's portrait of a girl at Méric, overlooking Castelnau village), walked a little and took the tram to the Domaine de Méric. We picknicked and chatted, the children played and excavated and made cement and collected sticks.

[D came at about 2 pm and chatted with them for a while - as we'd arranged - but of course I was hideously uncomfortable, as I always am in his presence. But he left after about an hour, so that was cool.]

We took the tram to Odysseum, the children had icecreams, we went to Decathlon and bought goodies, the kids had hot dogs in IKEA, and then we parted company, till tomorrow, when we go back to their place for our last day together.

The girls and I got home, and I found two cards from M (my other friend, in London) in my letter box, and that cheered me even further.

It was a good day, really. And, best of all, we're going back to J and M's holiday rental tomorrow for our last day before they leave.

Of course, real life sneaked its way back in, as it is wont to do: money worries plague me virtually all the time (except when I'm with J and M), D phoned tonight and is once again making noises about me refunding him his 25,000 € and I have so much to do that I'm not coping well at all.

But the four kids get on well - really well, even - and the weather is good, and the girls and I are off to Italy soon and it's summer and yeah. Life is definitely good in bits!

High hopes

2011-08-01T23:58:00.000+02:00

First day of a new month, and I have HIGH HOPES for this one. For one thing, as of midnight last night, I am officially on holiday, till midnight on the 15th. That alone is liable to make this a good month.

Also, the weather seems to have stabilised, and feels really hot and summery. Perfect.

Next, the girls and I are going to Italy for a week this month and I can hardly wait. I love Italy, have loved it every time I've been (three times so far) and am confident that we're going to have a great time.

My good friend D from New York will already have arrived here in Montpellier by the time we get back, and I haven't seen him since April 2001. And I can hardly wait for that, either.

The girls will be doing a circus and trampoline course, three hours every afternoon for five days, in the last week of August. They love the course, I love the breathing space.

Only minor hiccup - my ex-MIL from hell will be coming in the middle of the month, but hopefully I'll be able to avoid her as much as possible.

And only regret: that I won't be making it to my first ever BlogHer event this year. San Diego is financially unviable, and totally impractical in terms of timing. I'm hoping for (at least) an east coast venue next year, which would certainly be easier for me (less flights, probably cheaper flights). But I'm determined to go at least once; there are so many people whose work I read, and love, and admire, so many bloggers who have helped me (even if they don't know it), so many people I just love the sound of in their writing... 2012, hell yeah!

I used to love July, but this year July pretty much sucked. But really, I do have high hopes for August!

Bring it!

Virtual friends

2011-07-31T23:51:00.000+02:00

The Internet has been, almost literally, a lifesaver for me. I first started "surfing" way back in 1998 and have to admit to being rather disappointed. There was no Google, the search engines in existence back then were slow and incomplete, there were very few "services" available.

Gradually, of course, the Internet has taken over my life. I'm totally addicted. As someone who is, most likely, profoundly anti-social, it has allowed me to become a virtual recluse. If I can avoid going out of the house, I do, and the Internet makes that so much easier. I can buy just about anything I want or need on line, I get my food shopping delivered and almost all my work is conducted via e-mail (I've never met most of my clients; in fact, there are a number I've never even spoken to on the phone).

Since D left me 15 months ago, the online community has been my support system. First, through my real life best friends, the ones in Britain and the US, people I've known since I was 18... I'm not a phone person (I'm sure that doesn't come as any kind of surprise) and e-mail and Facebook have allowed me to keep in touch with these great friends. Their support in those dark, initial days was what kept me going.

And then there are the "virtuals" - people whose work I have read for many years, people who seem to think the way I do, people I like to think I could be friends with in real life if geography were not such an obstacle. I read a great many blogs (though not as much as I used to - Facebook and Twitter have snapped up a lot of minutes in my day!), comment from time to time and take great pleasure in the writing of these people.

To my utter amazement, several of these "big name" bloggers have commented on my blog, or via Twitter, or e-mail and have provided me with support and advice and encouragement, above and beyond the call of duty given that they've never met me. This kind of support touches me in ways you would not believe. Receiving e-mails from people who are, to me, the blogging community's A-listers boosts me, makes me realise that maybe I'm not as worthless and insignificant as I've been led to believe. It bolsters my fragile ego to think of these wonderful writers reading my drivel, putting up with all my ranting, hearing my voice.

So, down to the nitty-gritty. I'm starting to sense that there might, indeed, be light at the end of this tunnel. Yes, I'm still hopelessly broke, despairingly single, heartbreakingly lonely... but I don't actually think I'm unhappy any more. I know I'm stronger than I was, I know I can face just about anything now. I'm getting there.

And it's thanks to you. All of you. I know in most cases we've never met, but I sincerely hope to make it to BlogHer one day and, when I do, I would love to thank each and every one of you, individually, face-to-face, drink in hand, for being here for me in these dark, dark days.

The Internet has saved my life and has given me hope. There's still a long way to go, but I truly feel that I'm on the right road at last.

My "circle of Internet friends" may be virtual, and I may attach more importance to it than I should, but seriously, guys. Thank you. Truly, truly thank you. You guys are the best.

Really?

2011-07-30T23:54:00.000+02:00

Is it really nearly midnight already? This day just... sort of... didn't really happen for me today. I went to bed too late, got up too late, made lunch, faffed, napped, did a little shopping and then watched crap on TV. And now it's nearly midnight.

Wow.

It's amazing how much you can non-achieve when you set your mind to it. I haven't been bored all day, I haven't done anything either.

This must be what "holiday" means!

Yeah!

Can it really be?

2011-07-30T04:11:00.000+02:00

Can it really be that I've had a second FUN-DAY this week? Really? Me, the eternal whinger and whiner? Good lord, what's happening to me?!

Seriously, today was nice. Of course, I got very little sleep last night, but I didn't let that bother me till we were home and I could pass out on the sofa once the girls were in bed.

We got to the station at about 10, picked up our pre-paid tickets, bought a couple of drinks and waited for the train. It arrived more or less on time, we set off and trundled through the pretty landscapes of Frontignan, Sète, Agde and all points in between before arriving in Béziers at 11.10. M and his daughter E arrived not long after and we set off back to their rented house in Cruzy.

What a beautiful place! Their house is outside the village (or appears to be - you can't see anything resembling a village anywhere near it) and has an amazing view over vineyards and the Canal du Midi. The house itself if small but lovely, very homely and comfortable, and the pool/deck area is stunning.

The children spent most of the day in the pool - before lunch for over an hour, then after lunch and an obligatory "it's-too-hot-you've-just-eaten-go-play-with-Lego" break, for another 3 hours or so in the afternoon. They had so much fun!

And my sweet little L, she who refuses to take swimming lessons, TAUGHT HERSELF TO SWIM! By the time we left, she was leaping in, doing widths underwater, doing handstands... I'm sooooo proud of her! And so, so happy that my girls get along so well with W and E.

Truly, today was idyllic!

We caught the train at 6.45, arrived in Montpellier at 7.30 and had McDonald's for dinner (is there no end to the gloriousness of this day?!). We came home and, after the girls had showered and tooth-brushed, we then played 2 games of Uno in a wholly good-humoured atmosphere: no fighting, no sulking, no poor losing (despite the fact they were both exhausted).

As I said, an idyllic day. I can't thank J and her husband enough for coming here this summer. I know they're having a great time, so it's obviously no chore for them, but them being here, being so sane, so normal, so familiar, has been wonderful for the girls and has made me feel human again for the first time in months. I miss them enormously and would love to have the means to go and see them more often, but as that's not a possibility, this, this amazing year of a trip to their place in late October followed by them coming here in late July is pretty much perfect.

I actually feel happy for the first time since I can remember. Yes, I'm tired and I'm still worried about money. Yes, the imminent "discussion" with D about "the girls' future" is still kind of freaking me out, and I'm stressing about arrangements for next week (I have to try and fit two more days with J and 2 days with a friend in the Cévennes, both currently scheduled for more or less the same days) but I'm still feeling that it's all manageable, doable, within my range. Because I feel happy.

Feeling happy is such a novelty for me right now, I'm positively wallowing in it!

And, of course, I am technically on holiday myself right now (not officially till Monday, but no work will come in this weekend so...). Yes, I still have invoices to do/send, and student work to mark, but... I AM ON HOLIDAY!

I think August is going to be a good month!

Why

2011-07-28T22:39:00.000+02:00

Why can't I just be allowed to enjoy the (very brief) presence of one of my best friends in the world? Is that really so very much to ask?

Why do I have to have an ex who manages to screw up all my plans (or as many as he can) and make me feel like shit?

You guessed it: my ex phoned today. And he had a rather strange request. He asked me to set up a meeting - "an hour or two, though two would be best" - between my friend J and her husband, him and me, so we can talk "about the girls' future". He claims that I'll "most likely agree with what he has to say", but I can't help but think he's up to something. And freaking the shit out of me.

You have to remember (even though I don't think I've ever mentioned this here before) that he actually phoned J before he walked out on me and TOLD HER, putting her in a horrible, horrible position. Luckily (if that's the right word) he did the deed a very short amount of time later, but still.

I just can't understand him any more (if I ever have, in fact). This is one of my best friends, and I rarely see her - usually no more than 3 or 4 days a year. By some kind of miracle, this year I might actually see her a couple of days more thanks to this holiday. And he wants to come and ruin it by forcing us into some weird, deep, religious (I'm guessing) discussion about how to bring the girls up.

I'm freaking out, possibly unnecessarily, and I'm angry and seriously pissed off.

The fact that the girls were uncooperative today and screwed up my plans to get things done didn't help.

We're off to see J and her family tomorrow, and I'm looking forward to it, but I'm not looking forward to bringing this strange request from D up, and I'm looking forward even less to whatever arrangement we come to with D to meet up for this "hour or two".

Why does he interfere in my life in this way?

WHY?

Funday

2011-07-27T23:21:00.000+02:00

Today was, quite simply, a fun-day. Seriously. All of it, from start to finish.

I woke up at a ridiculously early time (having gone to bed somewhere not far from dawn) and was TOO EXCITED to go back to sleep. This, from someone capable of sleeping more or less round the clock when excitement levels go sub-zero.

I eventually got up, leaving C still sleeping in my bed (I'd found her there when I went to bed, and her flailing arms and legs were another reason for my sleeplessness. Yet another being a large, furry feline who sandwiched me between him and C, making me feel like I was in a sauna. A fluffy, flailing sauna) and found L already up and glued to the TV as usual.

We got ready and headed out, on foot, to the station. We arrived just in time to see them emerge on to the main concourse - my dearest friend, J, her husband M, and their two children, W and E.

There was squealing with joy! And more excitement! And so. many. things. to say, all at once, right away.

*sigh*

The day was a touristy bliss. Lunch at a pasta place (not very "typical" of Montpellier, but quite typical of our lives in Montpellier), a wander around the old town, a couple of hours of tea and Lego at our place, a stroll around the beautiful Botanical Gardens, a tram ride, an icecream and then the promise of a return visit either tomorrow or Friday.

It was leisurely, unstressed, unstressful, good-humoured and - dare I say it? - FUN! All four of them seemed to like Montpellier, and I tried to show them the nicest bits. The weather was a little uncooperative (it RAINED. AGAIN) but nice enough when we needed it. Oh, how I miss these wonderful people! And oh, how happy I am that my girls get on so well with W and E (they're all perfectly spaced: right now, they are aged 7 (L), 8 (E), 9 (C) and 10 (W)).

I've already said this people, but I'm going to say it again: today was a FUN day! The girls are, of course, exhausted, so I decided it would be best for us to go to them (45 mins by train, then 20 by car each way) on Friday rather than tomorrow. Also, the weather might well be better and I'll have time to do a few things here first.

And I'm already excited about it! It will be another fun day, I'm sure of it. Also, the last day of "work" for me (and THAT is why I like working from home - such fluidity in the concept of "work day" and "holi-day"), so obviously a great way to start the my real holiday!

Fun in the sun, indeed.

Home

2011-07-27T00:44:00.000+02:00

They didn't set out till almost 1 pm (they were over 700 km away). The road was long, the weather was bad (as it has been much of July in most of France).

But. But, oh but.

Just after 11 pm, whilst I was in the middle of a rather epic slanging match on the phone with my ex-MIL (I told her a few choice stories about her precious son that she had never heard before; I think I succeeded (at least a little) in understanding what a fucking SAINT I was with her son for longer than she realised):

Doorbell.

My babies, my sweet baby girls, home, safe and sound, looking so tall and grown up.

Holding them in my arms, covering them with kisses, listening to the stories they tell of their 8 days away, listening to them 'ooh' and 'aah' over all the tidying up I managed to get done (they're easily impressed, clearly).

A sigh of relief, a feeling of well-being, a sense that summer might - just might - be about to start for me, now.

Way back when I said I wished it were 26 July already. Well, it's now, technically, 27 July. And I'll be "on holiday" on Friday night, till 16 August.

Let the good times roll!

Almost

2011-07-26T05:12:00.000+02:00

If all goes to plan, the girls will be home in less (much less, hopefully) than 24 hours. I can't wait. I can't wait to hold them, kiss them, hear their voices, even hear them whine about something (though that latter part will probably not last very long).

I got some stuff done today, too. Not much, admittedly, but some all the same. I threw out 7 huge bags of rubbish - a huge chunk of it was recycling rubbish that's been piling up in the kitchen for weeks because the recycling bin is rarely out and, when it is, always full - and tidied up a fair amount of the sitting room. To me, it looks pretty tidy; there are still a few things to do, and I need to vacuum like crazy, but it's basically done. The only problem is the fact that to the untrained eye, the place still looks like a tip because there's still so much else to do. And I won't get a huge amount done "tomorrow" as it's already 5 am. But well. Baby steps, as they say, baby steps.

On the down side, though, is my uncontrollable tears this evening as I watched "Belle toute nue" on M6 (can't believe I actually watch this kind of crap now). It's a programme that gets a very camp stylist guy to help two women come to terms with their bodies by relooking them. Oh boy. The things the two women were saying could have come from my own mouth:

- can't bear to look at myself in a mirror;
- hate my stomach/hips/bust;
- never want to be seen in a swimsuit;
- don't feel attractive;
- can't be bothered to make any effort because I'm so convinced that I'm not attractive;
- etc.

I was crying before the end of the first "make-over", sobbing by the end of the second one.

I'm not (I don't think) as "curvaceous" as either of the women, mainly because I'm taller. But I am undoubtedly overweight, muffin-topping and repulsed by my stomach/hips/thighs. I don't make much effort any more because I'm chronically single, likely to remain so and virtually a recluse.

I know it's up to me to make the effort, to get out there and meet people (easier said than done: I'm utterly broke, remember?), reclaim my life. But I don't have the courage, I don't have the guts for that kind of thing.

And oh, how I hate being alone! How I long to feel a man's arms around me, holding me tight, whispering into my ear that I'm beautiful, that everything will be OK, that everything really will be OK.

But it ain't happ'nin' people, not at all.

J

2011-07-25T02:11:00.000+02:00

I'm so excited! In just a few days, I'll be able to see one of my very best friends! Yeah!

J and her husband and their two children are renting a house with a pool sort of near here (about 40 minutes away). They left their home in the south of England yesterday, spent the night somewhere in northern France and drove down today. I got an SMS from them this evening to say they've arrived safely.

J is going to phone tomorrow morning and we'll sort out when we can meet up, though most likely the four of them will come to Montpellier by train on Wednesday, the day after the girls get home. They can't stay with us, unfortunately, because their son is horribly, horribly allergic to cats. But they'll be spending the day here, and then we'll go over to them and oh, I'm just so excited!

I miss J and M so much; seeing them is such a treat - and I've been looking forward to this since last October, when J first started telling me about their plans to come down to this part of France for a change.

I can't wait for Wednesday!

Waste

2011-07-23T19:51:00.000+02:00

I was never a huge fan of Amy Winehouse as a singer - those who praised her "unique" gift and talent struck me as people who had forgotten that Dusty Springfield ever existed. There was, in my mind, nothing particularly original about Amy Winehouse's voice (in fact, for a long time, I believed that I'd never heard her sing because I thought her earliest hits, like Rehab, were actually by someone of the Dusty-ilk). But I can't deny that she brought a certain type of voice back to the forefront of attention, and that that certain type of voice is one that I like (big fan of Dusty, me).

Even more difficult for me to adhere to was the person. Her evident lack of guidance, her lack of self-control and her compulsive behaviour all seemed unreal. Countless stints in rehab (of course) had no effect. She was, as so many people so frequently pointed out, a total trainwreck of a person for many years and I can't believe it comes as a surprise to anyone that she was found dead this afternoon in her flat in London. Officially, her death (so far) remains "unexplained" but I shouldn't think the actual cause will come as any surprise. I'm sure drugs and/or alcohol were involved.

She was 27 years old, and already she's been linked in to the "Forever 27" group of artists who died at that age (Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrisson, Brian Jones...). It is undoubtedly sad - tragic, even - for a young women to die. And you don't have to be a fan of an artist to feel sadness at such news and sympathy for those who loved her.

I've been on my own now for 5 days. I'm not under any kind of spotlight, I'm not being pressured by agents or publicists or record labels or hangers-on or journalists or what have you. I'm not a slave to a musical talent (of any kind, believe me) that pushes me to create, to perform. I'm not addicted to drugs or alcohol.

And yet, during these 5 days, I've realised how very hard it can be to exert self-discipline. I have achieved absolutely nothing. I haven't left the house since Tuesday afternoon. I've been going to bed at dawn, getting up in the afternoon, watching all kinds of crap on TV, eating little. I've done the bare minimum in terms of work, almost nothing in terms of cleaning or tidying. And I can't seem to pull myself out of it, pull myself together, get my arse in gear. I just can't do it.

It's easy to blame someone like Amy Winehouse for her outrageously self-destructive behaviour. "Why couldn't she just stop drinking?" is easy to say. Rehab may have helped temporarily, but she was clearly surrounded by temptation (including - at least at a certain period of her life - her dreadful ex-husband), she was just as clearly under pressure and even more clearly not receiving the help and support she needed.

Her death may have seemed inevitable for a while now. And perhaps it was. But there are almost certainly a not insignificant number of people out there who should be feeling pretty damn guilty. People who pushed her down the wrong paths, who didn't provide her with the support she needed. People who are, to varying degrees, responsible for the death of a young woman who should have been entering the prime of her life.

I am no particular Amy Winehouse fan, but her death saddens me because it is, undoubtedly, a huge waste. A waste of a life, a future.

RIP Amy.

Dream

2011-07-22T21:56:00.000+02:00

I know there are few things more tedious than having to listen to someone banging on about the amazing dream they had the night before.

I know that.

But I'm going to do it anyway, because it's so rare that I actually remember anything at all (nowadays - I used to have vivid and unbelievably memorable dreams when I was younger). Plus, it's short, rather odd and quite funny. Oh, and it wasn't wholly disagreeable, either.

Last night I dreamt that this man

(taken from http://eardrumsmusic.com/2009/01/28/my-old-hero-lloyd-cole-with-new-huge-rarities-compilation-folk-singer-series-a-free-download/)

and I were in bed together. And it felt really, really nice. It felt right, normal and just... mmmmmm. You know?

Even more weird was the fact that it wasn't this man as he was in the picture above (yummy as he was), but as he actually is now (obviously much older, but still not without a certain charm):

(taken from http://louisvillemusic.org/blog/2011/06/20/lloyd-cole-interview/)

If you have no idea who this is, let me enlighten you: it's the amazing Lloyd Cole, one of the pin-ups of my youth and the genius behind such marvels as Lost Weekend, Perfect Skin, Are you ready to be heartbroken? and many, many more.

Oh, how I have listened to the album Rattlesnakes! I know all the songs by heart and I just adore his voice, his simplicity, his openness, his normalness (I know, that's not a word. So bite me).

I have no idea why I dreamed I was in bed with him (and why it seemed such a natural turn of events). I haven't even listened to my CDs of his recently (yes, I still listen to CDs because I don't have an iPod or anything even remotely resembling one). Though I might have to tonight...

I do remember being devastated that my abject poverty prevented me from going to see him in concert in Lyon back in 1993 (depressingly, I am currently just as abjectly poor and incapable of contemplating a concert ticket, but at least Lloyd Cole isn't touring here right now so I don't think I'm missing much of anything at that level).

Dreams are strange. I can understand that I would dream about being in bed with a man: at best, right now I share my bed with my cat and, until the girls get back, two of the soft toys they left behind (Eeyore and a stuffed cat). And there hasn't been a man there (a real, live man) since April 2010 (holy shit). So yeah, a dream about a man, for sure.

But Lloyd Cole? Why? I mean, I'm not complaining - he would do very nicely, in fact. But it is rather strange.

The only downer in this whole thing (apart from the obvious fact that IT DIDN'T ACTUALLY HAPPEN FOR REAL) is that I woke up before anything truly interesting happened. We were just lying there, staring at each other with desire, about to make that all-important first move and BAM! I woke up.

*Sigh*

(Oh, and Lloyd, if you ever read this? You'll always be welcome round here! Just call me!)

Money

2011-07-21T21:15:00.000+02:00

I don't know where I go wrong. I'm not an extravagant person, I don't have expensive habits (hairdresser once every 6 months maximum, and 18 months most recently, no beauty salons, no nail salons, no expensive clothes or shoes, no nights out, no restaurants... you get my drift) and I'm not - contrary to what D once accused me of - a gambler.

But...

Here I am, once again, so overdrawn and broke and freaked out that I don't know what to do. I work hard, I pay my bills, I do my best to find bargains, to not overspend. But it doesn't work. And I don't have a clue what to do about it.

Right now, checks are bouncing, direct debits are being refused and I'm up shit's creek. People owe me money, for sure (54 hours' teaching from September to December 2010 supposedly paid in March will only be paid at the end of this month (if I'm lucky), the remaining 76 hours, for teaching from January to April, supposedly paid at the end of this month will now only be paid in September/October, the whole adding up to about €4,500, plus a few clients here and there, but nothing major), but it always feels so hand-to-mouth. I have no savings, no "equity" (apart from my flat, but I don't even own that outright at the moment - still another 6.5 years to go), just loans, debts and obligations.

I find the whole thing unbelievably depressing. I can't afford to go anywhere, do anything. Checking my bank account on line every morning is an ordeal and an exercise in damage control, transferring sums from my private account to my professional account (or the opposite) just to avoid more bank charges.

There isn't much more I can cut from my life - I can't take the girls out of their school and where else does the money go? Taxes, social contributions, loan repayments, bills, food shopping...

I try to be positive, to believe in myself and my ability to pull myself out of this hole, but I'm 42, I'm still not solvent, I'm alone, I work a lot and earn nothing, I have no savings so my "retirement" will be a nightmare, I have no social life and couldn't afford one even if it were possible.

Where did I go so badly wrong? And what the fuck can I do about it?

Nothing

2011-07-20T20:47:00.000+02:00

Yup, that's what I achieved today. Nothing. A big, fat nothing.

I stayed up listening to music till a-time-I'm-not-willing-to-admit-to last "night", got up at 11 this morning when my shopping arrived, faffed about on the internet for a little while, went back to bed, got up at 4.30 pm (soooo embarrassed), had some junk food, watched crap on TV AND THAT IS IT.

So much for my "big plans" this week...

Seriously, I have to pull myself together, get to bed at a reasonable time tonight and actually get some stuff done. I have student translations to correct, invoices to do and the FLAT, OMG, the FLAT to tidy/clean.

Oh, and I guess I should leave the house on occasion, too.

Sigh.

I'm so badly equipped for living alone. If this were to become permanent, I'd probably turn into a total hermit. You know, the kind of person that lies dead in their home for 6 weeks before anyone even notices...

Don't get me wrong. I'm not wallowing in self-pity or sadness. I'm not crying or even feeling miserable. I've just been taken over by an all-engulfing tsunami of inertia.

Must. Pull. Myself. Together.

Gone

2011-07-19T21:28:00.000+02:00

He said he'd be here between 9 and 10 this morning, but he actually arrived at 11.15, by which time the girls (who'd been ready since 9.45) were a frenzied mess of anticipation and impatience. They left at 11.30 and arrived at their destination around 9 pm.

They'll be eating their supper right now, and then they'll take their pyjamas from their little red suitcases and, hopefully, find the surprises I packed without them knowing: a postcard telling them how much I love them, a magazine to read during rainy afternoons (of which there are set to be many, if the weather forecasts are to be believed).

I've achieved nothing today because I screwed up yesterday and forgot to post my quarterly VAT bill, meaning I had to trek right out of town to deliver it by hand so as not to face penalty charges this afternoon. But tomorrow will be better.

I'm just relieved they've arrived safe and sound.

I miss them so much already.

Going

2011-07-18T23:28:00.000+02:00

The suitcases are packed, the postcards from me (to be found at bedtime, to remind them of me) have been written and hidden under the pyjamas, the picnic is ready in the fridge. Tomorrow morning, D will turn up, supposedly "between 9 and 10" (ha!) and take my girls, my sweet, sweet girls away from here, far away, all the way to the Loire Valley for a whole week.

My heart aches and tears well up in my eyes way too easily.

We fight all the time, they're bored at home and so far July-with-Maman has been pretty crap, so I totally understand why they're so excited. And I know, once I've been reassured that they've arrived safely and that my god-awful MIL hasn't done anything ridiculous, that I will probably have a pretty good week. But it's still hard. It still tears me apart, this not-going-on-holiday-together thing. I can't bear to think of them so far away.

That said, I do have great plans for this week (they'll be home next Tuesday night). Admittedly, these plans seem to focus heavily on watching-crap-on-TV and eating-crap and sleeping, but plans are plans, after all. I also have work to do and a shitload of tidying, sorting, throwing out, cleaning and rearranging. I will have to force myself to leave the house (I realised this afternoon, when I was out running a few errands, that I hadn't actually left the house since Wednesday...), but I fully intend to make the most of this week.

I'm quite looking forward to being able to get things done without feeling guilty, to being able to listen to whatever music I like, watch whatever I like... I have plans, and I hope to make the most of this time.

But that doesn't mean I don't hate it, hate that it has to be like this, hate that holidays will always be like this from now on.

And nothing will ever stop me having minor panic attacks about the safety of my girls - it's a long drive, bad weather is planned and, whilst D is a good and responsible driver, you can't always guarantee that others are, and that freaks me out.

I won't rest tomorrow till I know they've arrived, then next Tuesday will be the same, until they get home.

I know this is utterly pathetic, that millions of kids go on holiday without their parents every year, but it's not just that they're going on holiday without me. It's the why and how of it all, the pain that I'm still feeling, the anger I'm still feeling towards D and his behaviour, the hatred of my crappy life.

Not proud

2011-07-17T01:13:00.000+02:00

I'm not proud of how I'm feeling right now. Not at all. But I can't help it. I'm feeling angry and hurt and, most of all, damn fucking jealous - and I'm not a jealous person by nature.

I'm jealous because D had a fucking birthday party - a real party, with guests and food and drink and music and staying-up-late (3 am!). HE had a real fucking birthday party, whilst I had nothing, just a slice of fruit tart mid-afternoon with the girls and my ex. Hardly what you'd call a party.

I know it's pathetic to be so jealous, but I am. I know it's pathetic to be jealous of a birthday party now that I'm not a kid any more, but I am.

I know I could have organised a party for myself just as easily but that I was too lazy to be bothered.

I'm jealous that he has a goddamn social life, a social life that includes parties. I'm jealous that he has the time on his hands to prepare such things.

And I hate myself for being like this.

When things get bad, I retreat into myself, spending my time in bed or at the computer, and certainly never talking to actual, real people. I become a hermit. So it's hardly surprising that my birthday was a non-event. D has always been a social creature, seeking out friends and events (it's a wonder we managed 14 years together given how different we are...), phoning friends just for the hell of it. Me, not at all. I never phone someone without a reason (and even when I have a reason, I generally put it off till the last possible minute, such is my loathing of the phone), I avoid talking to people when I'm out, I always kind of dread invitations (and this probably plays a part in why I don't get many).

But it hurts, it really hurts.

The people I would most like to spend my birthday with are all in a different country - I really do believe that if I lived nearer to J, M and H we would do things, be in touch, speak. But they're not here, and my friends here just aren't the same.

I'm jealous of D's social success and angry at myself for being so apathetic, so ridiculous and such a goddamn loser.

The girls came home this evening, after more than 24 hours away, happy and pleased with their fun weekend. They walked through the door, took off their shoes and immediately sat on the sofa to watch TV. Such a stark contrast hit me really hard: going with D means fun and seeing people and doing things and going places, being with me means getting yelled at, having to do chores and being so bored the only way out is to watch TV.

I think that the crux of the matter is that I feel like I'm losing them. D and I are in a sort of "good-cop-bad-cop" routine, but I'm always the bad cop. By refusing shared custody, I seem to have dug myself into a hole of mammoth proportions, where I'm always the shouting, yelling, complaining one and he's always the fun one. I still believe shared custody would be a mistake for the girls, but I do now concede that it might have been good for me (though I'm not sure: D is pathologically incapable of being organised so I'm not sure how he would have managed with all the little details I take care of).

My feelings of jealousy and self-pity disgust me this evening, and no amount of Ben & Jerry's will make me feel better (though I plan to give it a try). I hate myself for being such a failure at every goddamn level - no wonder my Dad has little respect for me! Everyone at school thought I had a brilliant future ahead of me, and yet, here I am, 42 years old and an abject failure in every aspect of my life.

Sorry for the moaning and ranting. Tomorrow can only be a better day (though it's due to rain apparently).

Being positive

2011-07-16T03:03:00.000+02:00

As yesterday was D's birthday (no, don't panic, I'm not going to go back over all that again), the plan was that he would come and pick them up around 4 (perhaps 4.30... I bet you can see where this is going), take them somewhere, then take them somewhere else for his birthday party before leaving them with his "friend" M for a sleepover.

I hate these sleepovers, but have never refused, so certainly couldn't yesterday.

The girls made their cake (well, C did - L was too ingrossed in fucking Phineas and Ferb, though I can't for the life of me understand what she sees in it as it's essentially the same story every time with a weird platypus bit stuck on at the end), then they decorated it with blue (Smurf blue) icing and a shit ton of sprinkles because L was little heavy-handed with the jar, they packed up their things (forgetting to take their pyjamas, of course), and waited.

D phoned to say there was no way he'd be here at 4, though of course I never actually thought he would be. It was, naturally, past 5 when he finally arrived, and off they went.

I finished up a little work and then... made a strategic decision.

I hate these sleepover things, because much as I can appreciate being alone for an afternoon, say, or during a school day, I hate being here alone at night. And, with the girls potentially going to D's mother's place for 8 days next week, this extra night away just seems like overkill.

But, in a totally uncharacteristic manner, I decided to give myself a night off. To make the most of this night alone. Yeah, positivism!

Now, don't get me wrong. I didn't go out to dinner, or catch up with friends, or go to the cinema, or hit the clubs or anything even remotely like that.

BUT: I had a pizza and Diet Coke for dinner (nothing says "wild Friday night" like junk food on your own!), followed it up with icecream, and spent the entire evening watching TV.

That might well sound like the lamest Friday night ever (and was certainly no match for Kathy Beth Terry's) but you know what? I enjoyed it! I didn't do any of the work I have to do, I didn't do anything "responsible" at all (you know, like handwash the dishes that have been festering in the dishwasher for a week because the water won't drain out of it and I don't know what to do and so now it's all mouldy and foul-smelling), I didn't "do" anything. And I enjoyed it!

I'm not an optimist by nature, so this is a new experience for me!

Baby steps, people, baby steps...

July is the cruellest month

2011-07-15T05:14:00.000+02:00

July is a tough month for me.

It's always (as in, "since I started working and had kids") been difficult trying to juggle a phenomenal amount of work and the holiday season. For some reason, every client I have (or so it seems) has a megashit ton of work to be translated, all, of course, as soon as possible. Plus there's no school, and friends are away and there are two small girls to occupy, preferably with something other than a millionth episode of Phineas and Ferb.

Since 2000, this month has also been my bête noire, the one with that date in it, the one that pulls me back in time to that wretched day that changed my life forever. Since then, there has always been a "before" (that date) and an "after" (things start to look up).

And now, added into this heady mix of overwork, school-less children and bad, bad memories, we can add today. This day is D's birthday, and to say that I have mixed feelings is the understatement of the year.

My current feelings for D are pretty well-known if you've read any posts I've written here since May 2010. There is now no love lost between us, and his presence in my life is a huge pain in the butt. I'm uncomfortable when he comes here, I'm awkward with him on the phone, I'm wary of everything he says and does because of the threat of ulterior motives. I loathe having to have contact with him, and distrust him now at every level because I know him to be capable of the worst, the very worst. Thoughts and words (and perhaps actions, I'm not sure) of such injustice, such evil (no, the word isn't too strong) that I can't believe we were ever actually together any more.

On the other hand, he is the father of my girls, and he is, without doubt, a good father. Caring, loving, present. He clearly loves them, and they love him. And that is right and good, I'm not saying anything else. But it's hard to bear.

So, today is his birthday. And I have to participate in this event, even though I have NO DESIRE to do so, but because my girls want to and can't without my help. We went out on Monday and bought him presents from them, to him. The girls received money from a friend of his (a "friend" perhaps, I don't know what relationship he has with this woman, and I'm not sure I want to know) and I paid the (very small) difference. This morning, the girls will be baking a cake, with my assistance. And I will have to wrap L's present because she's not really able to do that by herself just yet (C's already done hers).

What I'm saying is that this day is tough: preparing birthday surprises for a man I can no longer bear but whom I once loved and yearned for more than anything in the world is hard enough. That he has treated me so fucking badly to boot is just the icing on the cake (so to speak). Even more, knowing that doing this is both necessary and right makes it even harder.

Once today is over, there will be just 2 weeks or so of this nasty month to go. My babies will be going away with D for a week (8 days, in fact), probably next Tuesday, possibly as early as Monday, leaving me alone and miserable. My dear friend J and her family will be arriving in the region on the 23rd and I may go and see them, just me, either the next day or the Monday, depending on when my babies come home. And after that, life will pick up. The girls and I will spend time with J and her family - here in Montpellier, as well as at their rented holiday home. We will go on holiday ourselves, another friend will be arriving as we get back, there will be a circus and trampoline course, my father may be coming... All good stuff to come.

I just have to get past today (difficult day, difficult day) and then the wretched week without my babies. And then I'll be free to enjoy the summer at last!

The day after

2011-07-14T23:18:00.000+02:00

Today is the "biggie" in the French calendar - the French national holiday, in honour of the storming of the Bastille that kicked off the revolution in 1789 (the legend doesn't quite have the story right, of course, but the gist of it is more or less correct). The whole country more or less shuts down, there are firework displays everywhere - though smaller towns just outside bigger cities tend to do their displays on the 13th so as not to be in competition - and, traditionally, there are military parades during the day, parties (often organised by the fire brigade, for some reason) after the fireworks. A jolly day all round.

Obviously, as I'm not actually French (despite living here since 1992...), 14 July has never had a huge amount of significance for me. I've been to firework displays, and have enjoyed them, but it's not part of my culture, it doesn't mean anything.

Last night, D picked the girls up at 9 and took them to a firework display held by a small town just outside Montpellier, which does a wonderful job at a manmade lake in a former quarry. D and I went together, without the girls (who refused to go for years because they found fireworks too noisy and too scary), a few years ago and it was wonderful, one of the best displays I've seen. The girls said they enjoyed it last night.

That meant that there was absolutely no motivation to trek out to wherever Montpellier does its display - way out of town, meaning tramways and shuttle buses and crowds and gaaaaaah - and, whilst I enjoy a good firework display as much as anyone, I'm not particularly distraught, I have to say. As there are no barracks here in Montpellier either, the "parade" is kind of half-hearted too, so we skipped that and D took the girls swimming at the lake (the same one as last night's display, in fact) this afternoon instead.

14 July is also the birthday of our neighbours' little boy, who was 3 today, and one of my best friends in England's daughter turned 1. Oh, and my grandmother would have been 106 today if she hadn't died way back in 1988.

But most of all, 14 July is the day AFTER the anniversary of the worst day of my life, and will always be a good day for that reason alone. It means it's a whole year till the next wretched anniversary.

Happy Bastille Day!

11

2011-07-13T23:49:00.000+02:00

12 July: I am just about 5 months pregnant with my first child, conceived after a long struggle filled with tests and appointments and inconclusive diagnoses. In a few days (on the 17th) I will have the ultrasound that will tell us if our baby is a boy or a girl. We don't care, but do want to know. My back is hurting, like bad period pains, and my stomach is hard. I panic, D calls the doctor. There is some spotting, nothing major.

A short while later, the doctor arrives, examines me and says I need to go to hospital to make sure everything's OK. He says the baby is fine.

At the hospital, we've arrived just before a shift change. The first doctor - a woman - barely speaks to me, so keen is she to get off her shift and go home. I overhear her (or the midwife, I don't know) tell the person coming on shift, "OK, this one here, you'll just have to wait till she expulses the corpse" (or words to that effect). That's how D and I discover that our baby is dead. The tears - which have been copious already - start flowing again.

I don't remember the details of all that happens next. I do know that a young nurse, a trainee nurse, stays with me, doesn't go off shift, because she feels so bad about the way we are being treated. The hospital is understaffed because it's July, just before a long weekend (14 July is a public holiday here in France, everything shuts down. It's also the start of the main holiday season).

I'm in pain, and scared, and not sure at all about what's happening. A midwife comes in and seems annoyed with me - "Why aren't you putting those birthing classes into practice?" she asks, unaware (or uncaring) that I haven't got that far in my pregnancy yet and don't know how to "give birth".

Eventually, at I don't know what time, my baby is born, dropped into a blue, plastic basin and spirited away. My tears are unstoppable. D is exhausted and distraught, as emotionally drained as I am.

After a certain time, the midwife returns, my beautiful little girl wrapped in a blanket, looking like she's asleep. I take her in my arms, totally overwhelmed at how perfect she is. Yes, she's too small (waaaay too small - 475 g, just over 1 lb), but she looks perfect. And oh, so beautiful!

I hug her, I kiss her, I tell her how much I love her. D takes her in his arms (my heart cracks open to see this tall, strong man, totally overwhelmed by the tiny child in his arms) and takes her over to the window to show her the world. He is crying and that touches me more than anything I have ever seen.

The midwife comes back and says she must take our baby away. And that is the moment I relive. If only, at that split second, I had just let her do that. But no. I had to ask the question. I had to ask, "What will happen to her now?"

Oh, cursed question! Your answer will haunt my nightmares for all eternity. I've never forgotten what that bitch said, never.

"Well, after the autopsy, the corpse will be incinerated with all the other abortion waste."

And BANG! I die a little more.

I never, never forget that horrible phrase.

I am too distraught, too foreign to realise how wrong it all is. My baby died at 22 weeks and 5 days of amenorrhoea, and in France the "cut-off" point for "abortions" vs "stillbirths" is 23 weeks. Another 2 days and my baby would have existed administratively, would have been given a funeral, would have been given a name. Just 2 days. If I had known, I would have fought for her, fought with all my might. But I didn't know, and I didn't have the strength to think about this kind of thing. I have no mementos of my baby, no photo (that's a lie: about 3 years later I finally recovered photos taken of her before the autopsy, but THOSE won't be shared with anyone; she'd been dead for 4 days and looked... forgive me for saying this, sweet girl... terrible, terrifying), no tiny footprints, no tiny handprints, nothing. Just my memories.

My eldest daughter turned 11 today. Can you imagine that? I have an 11-year-old daughter, a little girl about to go into secondary school, start a new chapter in her life. A little girl on the brink of adolescence, edging her way towards womanhood and a life of independence.

Except...

No.

No new chapter, no secondary school, no emerging adolesence. No daughter.

I don't "have" an 11-year-old daughter, I "had" a daughter, 11 years ago. But she was already gone, before I even met her, before I held her perfectly formed, utterly beautiful, tiny, tiny body in my arms for the first and last time.

The doctor "caring" for me never touched me, never examined me, considered me a hysterical liability. The hospital couldn't get rid of me quick enough and I was discharged on 14 July (Happy Bastille Day! Yeah!), no medication (except to stop my milk - oh, the irony! For this little girl, I had milk leaking out all over the place, for my two living daughters, it never came in and... well. That's another story, for another day), no counselling, nothing. Just me and D, back home, alone.

I saw the doctor again, but he never spoke to me, and wrote in my records that I was "hysterical" (and not in the "funny" sense). He addressed all his conversation to D. For consultations, I had to go to the maternity hospital, walk past the goddamn nursery and face the "how far along are you?" question every time I checked in. He never knew what happened, and cared even less.

My baby girl died in the greatest indifference possible. D, one week later when we were in Spain on holiday (as planned beforehand - I'd wanted to cancel, he convinced me to go), told me to "pull myself together" because I couldn't stop crying and was "ruining his holiday" (this makes him seem like a monster, but it's not true; I know he was deeply affected by this too - just didn't show it like I did); my father said "I hope you aren't going to get all weepy about this...". No one cared, except my friends, my dear, sweet friends back in England. And one of them, M, still remembers, even now: she sends me a pick-me-up message every year and I love her for it.

Happy Birthday, Sweet Girl. I love you with all my heart, and you will always have a place there, for as long as I live. You are remembered, and loved, and missed more than anyone will ever know.

Cold shower

2011-07-12T23:54:00.002+02:00

Last night was the first night this summer that it's actually felt hot - really hot, as in muggy and sticky and not really very comfortable. All night. I even slept with nothing to cover me other than my pyjamas (I'm notoriously susceptible to cold so this is a pretty big deal). And Tom? Well, he's a miserable pile of long fur sprawled over the parquet flooring in a desperate attempt to keep cool. (This, despite the fact that he's the coolest cat in the world, of course.)

We live in the centre (more or less) of a large city. We also live in a flat with no greenery around it, other than plane trees (damn them! hiss! curse their nose-itching pollen!) out front and a totally out-of-control wisteria bush crawling over the balcony, threatening to take us over (fuck that, take over the WORLD) by growing, like, 15 cm a DAY.

What I mean is that it is HOT here in the south of France and coolness is both much sought-after and hard to find. The one place that feels really good right now is the shower - cool water pouring off your shoulders, streaming down your back... Delicious!

So guess what broke this morning as I was finishing up my shower! Yup, you guessed it, the COLD TAP. I suppose I should be grateful that it broke as I was finishing - rinsing off shower gel with scalding hot water would have been... er... interesting? And yes, I know I could have used the sink, but it's not practical AT ALL.

"No problem!", you cry. "You go buy a new tap, install it and Bob's your uncle", as they say (except no one in my family WOULD say that as I don't have an uncle called Bob - don't have any uncles at all, in fact).

I'm no handywoman, but I did, indeed, go out and turn off the mains water, find some kind of pincer-y tool thing and remove the tap and go to my nearby (and possibly only) plumbing supplies shop. Felt right proud of myself, too.

Of course, they didn't have the right tap for me. OF COURSE they didn't. That would be too easy, right?

But they will be getting new ones tomorrow morning. And they had screw-on cap thingies to block the taps so I could turn the mains water back on and at least use OTHER taps. Wonderful! Perfect!

"One last thing," I stupidly ask the saleswoman. "How much will the new tap be?"

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

€149 excluding tax.

HOW MUCH?

Yup, €149 excluding tax.

Now, I'm sure you can find cheaper ones in the DIY stores out of town. But I don't have a car and can't fucking get to them, can I? And Thursday is the damn national holiday so it will all be shut anyway.

AAAAAARRRRGGGGHHHHH.

I can't believe I might have to suck it up and pay €149 excluding tax for a TAP for fuck's sake.

And of course, it's so hot and muggy tonight the only thing that I can think of is standing under a nice, cool shower (OK, the only thing apart from Johnny Depp lying naked on my bed offering me a glass of Banyuls or perhaps some Pimm's n°1...).

This could be a looooooong night.

Stationery

2011-07-11T23:27:00.000+02:00

Hello. My name is Magic27 and I'm a stationery addict.

I know I've mentioned this before, but what the fuck is it about stationery shops? They suck me in and the next thing I know, plastic is being burned and I have a whole slew of new supplies...

Of course, today was "allowed" because today was the day the three of us went and got all the supplies we needed for the new school year. Which doesn't start till 5 September. But seriously? You think I could wait till then? Besides, there were no crowds and plenty of choice. Nah!

I spent a small fortune, and I'm not entirely sure how I managed that. The girls will be reusing a fair amount of stuff from last year (we only needed one school bag, for example) and yet it still came to about €100. That's extortionate, no?

But never mind. It was glorious, and I resisted temptation and only bought one thing for me - a new school-year diary - and even that was something I actually need. Fortunately, we didn't go upstairs to the arts and crafts supplies (that's my total, total weakness).

There's just something so deliciously yummy about a new notebook - empty pages of silky paper, waiting to be covered in scribbles and notes and ideas. Or a new pen, with all that ink at the ready. And there's so much beautiful stationery out there nowadays... I could spend a fortune on notebooks alone (even though I rarely actually need notebooks for anything and even the ones I buy tend to lie unused in a pile next to my desk...).

As addictions go, I'm pretty sure it's harmless. It's legal, for one thing, and much cheaper than drugs, alcohol and gambling. It's also potentially useful (up to a point).

I'm not ashamed of my addiction. Au contraire, même.

I AM STATIONERY ADDICT AND THIS IS MY RIGHT.

A hop and a skip and a jump

2011-07-10T23:24:00.000+02:00

Today was better.

OK, when I finally dragged my lazy arse out of bed, the bottle of milk was still sitting on the table, in glorious not-put-back-in-the-fridgeness, and neither C nor L was dressed, and they had been bickering.

BUT - they weren't actively trying to kill each other, no one was crying or whining and they didn't seem to be in horribly bad moods.

Hey, round here, you take what you can get when it comes to positives.

We had lunch - all together, sitting at the same table, with C laying the whole table (and not forgetting anything) and L (eventually) clearing the table. D called to say he wasn't available, I said I would take the girls somewhere.

They wanted to go and see Kung Fu Panda 2, but unfortunately it was too late and we'd never have made the cinema on time (and, given how hot it was today, there was no way I was running up 104 steps to get there quicker). So, I suggested Hop. I know, it got terrible reviews, but the girls watched the trailer and pronounced that yes, they wanted to see it. (They're not stupid: I think they would have agreed to any film at all, to be honest because I don't take them very often and they probably figured if they kicked up a fuss I'd have gone crazy, called them ungrateful and refused to do anything interesting at all. So there is that.)

We saw Hop. No, it wasn't the best film of all time, but it was cute, it was funny, it WASN'T IN 3D (making it worth the price of the ticket for that reason alone) and we all enjoyed it. Maybe we (or I, anyway) just have crap taste in films but I don't know, it wasn't as cringeworthy as some kids' films I've seen and I probably liked it better than, say, Tangled, which still got way better reviews. Make of that what you will.

After that, we went to the nearby park for a while, and then I caved and took the girls for fast food (quite a relief, actually, as I have HAD IT with cooking all the time!).

Once home, they got ready for bed and we played board games for a little while before they went off to bed, reasonably good-humoured for once.

So, the day cost me €40, but we had a good time and they both said "thank you" for taking them out and there weren't too many tears in the course of the day and I consider the day a SUCCESS!

Yeah!

Unreasonable

2011-07-09T23:22:00.000+02:00

I don't consider myself to be an unreasonable person. Not at all, in fact. Most of the time, I'm a deeply logical, rational kind of person (this was even one of the many things D reproached me of: lack of "emotion" (fuck that!) and too much "logic").

And yet. And yet.

I ask the girls to do certain things around the house. They're 9 and a half and just over 7 now, so perfectly capable of doing these "certain things". And Lord knows it's not exactly slave labour I'm asking of them.

And yet. And yet.

I feel like I have to spend my entire life shouting at them. Nothing gets done without me asking (nicely) a few times, then barking orders and/or getting stroppy a couple of times.

Is it really so unreasonable of me to ask them to put the milk back in the fridge when they've finished using it? I mean, it's around 30°C at the moment and milk needs to be cold, right?

Is it really so unreasonable of me to ask them to pick up used tissues and throw them away, rather than leave them on the floor of the sitting room?

Is it really so unreasonable of me to ask them to lay the table, or clear the table, or put their clothes away?

I don't know, but I do know that they don't do any of these things, or at least, not without a lot of effort on my part.

I had a massive sulk-fest (which was very childish, I admit, but it seems to be the only kind of reaction they understand) at lunchtime today. They did NOTHING to help, hadn't put their breakfast stuff away (so - bottle of milk, carton of orange juice, both on the table), stared idiotically at the TV, squabbled, left clothes strewn all over the sofa and floor, left dirty used tissues on the floor, etc. And I just lost it. I made lunch and then set the table just for the two of them, saying I wouldn't be eating with them because slaves and servants don't eat with their masters. I ate my lunch alone, on a stool on the balcony with the cat at my feet (it wasn't wholly unpleasant, I admit). I felt like shit, but you know what? They cleared the table, they didn't squabble.

The trouble is, I don't want to miserable them (yes, to miserable is a verb) into submission. I just want them to take some responsibility, to cut me some slack, to give me a break from DOING EVERYTHING. I'm tired, people, I mean, seriously tired. Because I do EVERYTHING. I have a full-time freelance translation job, part-time teaching job, plus I do all the shopping, cooking, dish washing, laundry, clothes folding, housework (such as it is), organising and various miscellaneous stuff (presents for parties they're invited to, school stuff, homework supervision...), admin stuff (personal and professional), leisure stuff (booking holidays, organising activities)... I do it all, I tell you, and I have HAD ENOUGH.

I have no life of my own - when the girls aren't here, I either sleep, work or hang out on the internet. I never see friends (no money to go out anywhere, not much motivation either), have no love interest (ha!), few leisure activities.

All I'm asking is that they participate a little in our life together. Is that so very unreasonable?

Total decadence

2011-07-08T23:54:00.000+02:00

So, yesterday was the Tour de France (today, too, actually, though I was reading a magazine at the same time - and, technically, translating a text about bicycle tyres). And today? "Secret Story" for fuck's sake.

The girls and I sat up and watched the entire first episode - all the "candidates" going into the "house of secrets", all the secrets, all the mysteries of the house. Everything.

Worse, I actually enjoy this show (and it's utter CRAP, I'm well aware of that). And worst of all, I suspect C has been hooked too: she's got the names down, she's got "favourites" (though how that's possible is a mystery as they all seem pretty irritating and we barely "know" any of them), she's OK on the rules of the game, she's starting to try and guess who has which secret... Damn!

This could be a long, long summer addiction - the show runs for an amazing 14 weeks I believe.

(On a more positive note: I got my hair cut today, about 20 cm cut off the bottom, slightly layering at the front but really very slight. I'm extremely pleased with the result and proud of myself for actually going through with it!)

Procrasti...hell, I can't even be bothered to type the whole word...

2011-07-07T22:52:00.000+02:00

July has always been a busy work month for me. Sometimes, I've been on holiday in July, but the weeks I've been "at work" have still been hectic. Other years, I've gone away in August and found the whole of the month pretty frenetic.

And hey, guess what? 2011 is no exception! I've told my clients I'll be away in August, meaning I'm NOT away in July and well. Work, it just keeps on coming...

Now, don't get me wrong: I'm not really complaining as I'd rather have this "problem" than the opposite one. But my natural tendency for leaving things to the last minute means I keep on wasting time and end up having to work all night. *sigh*

It wouldn't be so bad if I at least did something fun, or useful, whilst not working. Do you know what I did this afternoon? I got back from the university (last oral exam till September, woot!), made myself a ham sandwich, read the magazine I'm subscribed to (and that arrived by post this morning while I was out) and then... and THEN... (I'm embarrassed to even admit this)... I "watched" the live coverage of today's stage in the Tour de France.

Seriously - what is less interesting than watching a live cycle race over 226 km in the rain? Nothing, that's what. I absolutely couldn't give a toss who won (couldn't actually tell you, to be honest, even though I saw it. He was Norwegian, I do remember that), who's leading the overall race, bla, bla, bla.

But could I peel myself off the sofa and do something else? No, I couldn't. I couldn't even summon up the "strength" to have a nap - which would, at least, have made this evening easier.

Damn cycling. It's boring as hell, you can't tell who's who (and don't much care), it lasts FOREVER. Yet... yet... that's how I chose to fill the latter part of my afternoon.

So now, at almost 11 pm, I have a 13-page research article to proofread and a 1-page translation to correct for one of my students.

The only logic behind it that I can think of is that it allows me to look at the muscly thighs of lots and lots of young men (very muscly, I must say. Not so sure about those distinctly dodgy Lycra shorts, though. And I would rather look at the thighs of Johnny Depp, or Jon Hamm or Pat Monahan than those of random cyclists to be honest). You get your kicks where you can, I guess.

"Off" switch

2011-07-06T20:56:00.000+02:00

Holy crap, I wish there were some kind of "off" switch for my brain. I just CANNOT LET GO. Whilst my body morphs into something resembling a sloth (a sloth that spends waaaaay too much time on the Internet, drinking Diet Coke and eating crap, that is), my brain runs on, a hundred miles an hour, non-stop, all day, every day and (particularly) every night.

It's driving me batshit, I swear. I've got to the point where I just don't know how to relax. All the time, in my mind, I'm having imaginary conversations. Sometimes, I'm having conversations with people that only exist in my fantasies (these can be kind of nice conversations - I feel appreciated and loved by these wonderful people, but the return to reality is rather brutal as a result). And sometimes, I'm having conversations I would like to have (or would like to have had) with real people. The latter are often ranty in nature, which does nothing to help calm me down.

I seem to have a gift for only finding the appropriately biting response to some kind of irritation or put-down once it's actually too late.

I make lists in my head, lists of things to do, planning out the order in which I have to do them. I run through all kinds of useless information, often involuntarily (like counting the number of steps up from my part of town to the centre of town (104, if you're interested) (which I know you're not) (but I'm telling you anyway because hey, if my brain is going to be filled with useless crap, yours may as well be too)), but sometimes just as some kind of test. Perhaps my mother's slowish-but-early decline into total dementia is behind this constant need to test my brain power. Or maybe I'm just certifiable.

Whatever. My brain is always in full systems GO! mode, whizzing and whirring like a crazy machine from a Tex Avery cartoon, often waking me up at night because of a thing I forgot to put on my list. Or a thing I forgot to do. Or whatever.

I suspect I'm headed for some kind of heart condition - my stress levels are always high and this brain-whirring thing can be damn disturbing. Especially when I'm still writing out lists, or crossing stuff off lists, at 3 in the morning with vision so blurred I can barely see the lines on the paper.

Can anyone tell me where the goddamn "off" switch is?

Open water

2011-07-05T18:28:00.000+02:00

In those hours - nanoseconds - before you wake, your heart starts pounding like crazy. Somehow, you know you're dreaming, nightmaring, but it still feels horribly, horribly real. Panic sets in, you don't know what to do, you don't know how to react, you're going to die, you're going to die, you really ARE going to di...

BAM.

You're awake, a sweaty mess, trembling and hyperventilating. The shadows on the wall move eerily and you don't start to calm down till you've clicked on your bedside light and disturbed the sleeping cat at your feet.

Of COURSE it was just a bad dream. You knew that. You know yourself well enough to know that you'd never go that far out to sea. For God's sake, you can't even swim, or not properly anyway.

But it felt so REAL. The coldness of the water, that salty taste in your mouth, the unmistakeable smell of the sea. The bits of seaweed floating in the water, twining around your legs - GAH. ARRGH. GET IT OFF ME! GET IT OFF ME NOW! - the odd bit of flotsam, the squawking seagulls.

Your pale limbs flailing, your mind flashing to the fact that you can't feel the fucking sand beneath your feet so you're on your own and you are going to drown. Oh shit. How did this happen?

Oh yeah, that's right, it's a dream, it was a dream, a bad dream, a goddamn nightmare.

But, I swear, it DID feel real... It might be improbable, impossible even, but I was THERE: on the beach one moment, then easing myself gently into the sea the next, gasping as the cold water touched my hot skin. Walking out, further and further, to get away from the kids horsing around and splashing like crazy.

Buoyed up by the gentle waves, floating a little, drifting even. And then. Oh, Christ, and THEN. That moment of realisation that I'm out of my depth, that I'm actually going to have to swim to get back to shore.

Heart pounding, pulse racing, fear gripping my mind. Flailing, crying out for help, hoping, hoping, hoping someone will pay attention...

But it was just a dream. I keep saying that, but perhaps if I say it often enough, I'll calm down, start to believe it and finally go back to sleep. To dream of something prettier, safer, happier.

Open water? Hell no.

Patriot

2011-07-04T23:17:00.000+02:00

Until I was 23, I rarely, if ever, considered myself to be patriotic. I was born in Britain of an English father and a Scottish mother and raised with a very real awareness of my British-ness (rather than Englishness, as the rest of the world would have it). To be honest though, I have never, even for one minute I don't think, actually felt Scottish - I like the country and I like to visit it, but it doesn't feel like "home". I'm much more comfortable with being simply English (sorry, Mummy dearest, I know this would have you spinning in your grave, but it's true) and, if anything, the 4 years I spent at St Andrews (admittedly the most English university in Scotland) reinforced that.

There were brief forays abroad - a 3-month period in Salamanca in 1990, another 3-month period in Paris in 1991, but they were just that: brief, and left no lasting impression on my identity (though I certainly had a lot of fun in Salamanca, I must say).

Since then, though, I've lived in France, moving to Paris in July 1992, then Lyon later that year (September) and finally Montpellier in August 1999 (still can't quite believe I've lived here almost 12 years...).

Don't get me wrong: I like living in France and have made it my home. I miss certain people in Britain, but not particularly the place itself - the odd visit now and then is perfectly sufficient for me. I have made friends in France, I work here, raise my children here (they were born here and are far more French than British). My life is here.

But I most certainly do NOT feel French, and I don't think I ever will. I have yet to even apply for nationality, actually, though I know I'd get it without a problem.

If I'm cornered into watching some sporting event, I don't feel any compulsion to wish the French victory (and even take a certain sadistic pleasure in seeing them lose, to be honest), just as I don't usually want the Scots to win either. But I do invariably kind of hope the English win. I'm not seriously bothered one way or the other, but that Englishness of mine is there, buried below the surface.

Today is Independence Day in the US and there have been many tweets and posts about pride in being American. This is something I admire greatly in Americans, their genuine pride in their nationality. Their sense of unity behind their flag, their history, their culture. They may all be of various diverse origin, but their American-ness unites them, unifies them, strengthens them.

I'm not proud to be British, it's just something I am. I frequently feel greatly embarrassed, even, as Brits have a horrid tendency to behave atrociously abroad. I may support England teams in their endeavours up to a point, but when they (invariably) lose, I certainly don't lose any sleep or cry any tears. I like the Union Jack flag, but never wear one, even though they fashionably adorn all kinds of things here in France (I do have things with the flag on, but they're all things that stay at home. And they match the "décor" of this flat, if you can call it that).

I suppose I feel English (not British), but really only when I feel my culture, my heritage is being attacked or criticised. The French are quick to criticise Britain in general and England in particular, and that is the one thing always liable to rile me. I'm dreading the girls' middle and high school history lessons - I've seen text books and I know I'm going to be irritated by the lying by omission, false representation, etc. I've often had to defend British cuisine (universally derided here (D, to be fair to him, was a staunch advocate of British cuisine), British weather, British politics (a tough one - a) I know little, b) I care less and c) it's been so long since I've lived there that I'm pretty much out of touch), etc. My patriotism is merely a defence from attack by the French.

Today is US Independence Day, and next week is the French National Holiday, Bastille Day on 14 July. There is no equivalent day in the British calendar (England's St George's Day is a travesty of invisibility, especially compared to the Irish effusion over St Patrick) and I sometimes wonder - usually on 14 July whilst I quite willingly ignore all forms of celebration - if I would feel some pride in my nationality if there were.

After 19 years living in a foreign country, I think I am actually without nationality. My Englishness comes out when I'm under attack or when England play someone in sport, yet I feel totally detached from life in my country of birth. I don't feel French, ever, though, yet I fit in (I think) pretty well, fairly seamlessly to be honest.

Patriotism is a pretty alien concept and I do, truly, envy Americans this holiday of theirs, this day on which the nation feels pride in its achievements, families and friends get together, eat, drink and watch fireworks.

Happy Independence Day, my US friends!

Snap

2011-07-03T23:07:00.000+02:00

I had a project, way back in October or November. I "set it in motion" (which is basically just a very fancy way of saying I spent a couple of hours on the Amazon.co.uk website doing research) and it finally came to "fruition" this weekend.

Gosh, that sounds impressive, right? Basically, my idea was to teach the girls how to use a camera (they've taken pictures with disposable cameras, but it's very hit-and-miss, especially as I can't see what (if anything) they're doing wrong until we get the prints back, by which time it's too late). They've taken some fairly decent pictures, but more by chance than anything else I suspect.

So, on Amazon, I did some research. I eliminated all the over-priced "licence" cameras (Hello Kitty, Barbie...) first because they're unbelievably naff, and second because they're pretty crap cameras.

I decided on a 5 Mega pixel camera (one in red, for C, and in yellow, for L) at a pretty low price. I ordered them in early November with the intention of giving them as the main Christmas present.

Unfortunately, they weren't in stock and there was no delivery estimate given, so I gave up on the idea for Christmas.

The red one arrived around the end of January, but nothing for the yellow one. Eventually, I got a mail saying they'd had stock supply problems and probably wouldn't be getting the yellow one at all. I was, understandably, pretty fucked off.

A couple of months later, I pre-ordered a pink one, but again, it had no estimated delivery date, so I wasn't hopeful.

And then, last week, I got a promotional mail from Amazon (as I do just about every day, actually) and it had a yellow camera for the same price, but a different brand. Of course I bought it - and it arrived yesterday (and I promptly cancelled the pink one - we don't need that many!).

I'm not sure when to give them to the girls, though. It's quite a big gift, and seems too much for just a "little surprise". But, at the same time, I'd like them to be able to use their cameras over the summer (and in Italy in particular). C's saint's day is coming up, as is L's (they're about 2 weeks apart, with mine in the middle), so I might use that as the pretext.

Whatever. I'm probably more excited than they're going to be, though I do hope they'll have some fun with this and get some good use from their cameras. They're not expensive things, so I won't be heartbroken or furious if they end up breaking them (though if they break them too quickly I may not be responsible for my actions, I must admit), but 5 Mega pixels is reasonable for a first camera.

I'm no great shakes as a photographer myself, but I have some pretty decent snaps, and photography is something I've always been interested in (I did a course in St Andrews on developing photos way back in my first year - it was fun, but too advanced for my complete beginner status).

If the girls take anything good (and I'm sure they will), I'll post a few pictures here. In the meanwhile, here are a couple of my favourite pictures from this spring!

Taking the plunge

2011-07-02T23:37:00.001+02:00

So. I took the plunge - figuratively - today. In two ways, actually.

First, I decided to not only wear a dress that I would normally consider to be outside my comfort zone, but even to wear it with pride.

Don't get me wrong - this is no Lady Gaga-esque number made of meat or cling film. It's probably a stunningly boring dress by Katy Perry standards (no exploding whipped cream). But it's quite short, it's a halter neck and it has a somewhat plunging neckline (hardly a "neck" line at all, in fact, more a "rackline" to be honest). And, because of its halter-ness (and the princess line) it requires bralessness to boot.

Strangely enough, I put it on almost without thinking this morning. I went out, off to the market to get my week's supply of fruit and vegetables, and didn't think once about my bralessness, bare-backedness, more-thigh-than-I'd-like-showing-ness. I felt cool with myself.

I've said before that I have no pretensions, illusions or delusions regarding the way I look, but with this simple, cotton dress (madras-sy type check in turquoise, taupe, cream and red if you're interested), I felt OK. Good, almost.

Quite a novel feeling, I must say.

My second figurative plunge into unknown (or at least unfamiliar) waters also occurred this morning, while I was out.

Before hitting the market, I went to the hairdresser's. Again, I know this doesn't sound earth-shattering, but a) I have always, always loathed getting my hair cut and b) given (a) and my mounting debts, it's been easy to push this ordeal to one side on the pretense of "saving money", so I haven't actually been in about 18 months I shouldn't think.

First, I got appointments for the girls (who haven't been since spring 2010 and have straggly string-like hair down to their waists). Next Wednesday, 2.30 pm. Much snipping will be in order.

And then, I sucked it up and took an appointment for me, too - next Friday, 2 pm. I even told the young girl that I want - gasp! shock! - a "change". Of course, I immediately qualified that with "nothing radical, though". She mentioned layering (which I don't think I've ever had done). I'm both horrified at the thought of having to go through with this and, at the same time, weirdly excited. My hair at present is a disaster - almost waist-length, straggly, unkempt. The only good thing is the colour - not a hint of grey, still a pale red (I like to think of it as "strawberry blond", but it's probably not quite as blond as that. But not coppery or even fully ginger either). The idea of having a proper "style", instead of just requesting that a chunk be cut off the bottom in a straight line, is terrifying and exhilarating. I do feel kind of sick, though.

Despite the fact that I did bugger all for the rest of the day (I even sank as low as "watching" the first stage of the Tour de France (cycling! Me, watching cycling!) on TV), I feel more than a little proud of myself for actually achieving something today. Nothing major by most people's standards - I'm well aware of that - but fuck that. Major for me.

(sink or) Swim

2011-07-01T22:39:00.000+02:00

(By the way, I'm totally going to say I succeeded in NaBloPoMo last month, even if one of my posts didn't actually appear on the right day so it looks like there's a day missing.)

I've made it my mission to do NaBloPoMo again, and this month's theme is SWIM.

My relationship with water-of-the-swimming-in kind has always been somewhat strained. In fact, one of the surest ways to turn me into a blubbering wreck when I was a kid was to mention the words "swimming" and "lesson" and "school" in the same sentence.

I remember the horror of swimming lessons at one of the many primary schools I attended. Eight-year-old me, sitting, blue with cold, on the icy, wet tiles surrounding the local municipal pool. Shivering - with cold, yes, but also with absolute terror. Waiting for the swim teacher to stand behind me and push me in, suddenly. The waiting was almost as bad as the entry into the wet stuff itself. Almost, but not quite.

Hyperchlorinated water burning my eyes, ears, nose. Gasping for breath, arms flailing helplessly. Tears pouring down my face, scrambling back to the side, struggling to climb back out and then back to the start - sitting on those damn tiles, the rough edge cutting into the backs of my horribly skinny, white legs, shivering, gulping back the sobs, waiting for the next push.

Unsurprisingly, I didn't learn to swim at school. I was given the "10 m achievement" badge, but I think everyone got that as long as they turned up to class. I have no recollection of ever being able to swim 10 m as a child.

As we're talking about 1970s/1980s Britain, private pools and hot summers at the beach didn't feature highly in my childhood. My father absolutely didn't have the patience to teach me, my mother was worse than I was, swimming just wasn't a priority nor even, in reality, a possibility.

I never really learned to swim, in fact.

I took classes as a young adult (with my mother, for the love of God), and failed. I took classes here in France, after the death of my first child, in an attempt to accept my body. Amazingly, I DID learn that time - I could do a pretty decent crawl and breast stroke. But I never liked diving in (or even jumping in), and I still flinched if I got splashed by someone else. And I didn't really enjoy it. I never felt "in my element" (how the fuck could WATER be my environment? I mean, seriously? Do I have gills?)

I became pregnant again, had hideous, hideous nausea and sickness for the entire time, tried to swim - in the sea - only once and it was a disaster: the Mediterranean has no nice, reassuring handrails on three sides, no (visible) boundaries and MOVES ALL THE TIME (OK, the waves are pretty pathetic by oceanic standards but still. More waves than a damn pool). Oh, and there can be seaweed and jellyfish and... So. Yeah. Not so much the swimming in the sea stuff.

And now, 10 years later, I think it's safe to say I am back to not being able to swim at all again. "They" say you never forget, I beg to differ. In 2000-2001, I could swim, quite well, underwater even. Now, I can't. I've rarely been in a position to try, it's true, as I avoid it as much as I can (example: I live 10 km from the Mediterranean and went to the beach exactly 6 times last year, going "in the water" (up to my waist) only 3 of those times, plus once in a hotel pool on holiday in Spain). I can't bear being splashed, or pushed, or jostled. I can't bring myself to LIE DOWN in WATER. I CANNOT DO IT.

I pretty much loathe my body, particularly in a swimsuit. I feel white and pasty and deeply, deeply unattractive and self-conscious. D was of no help with that, frequently making fun of me and making me feel worse. Now, as a single woman of 42, my self-consciousness is in the stratosphere.

I react very badly to chlorine. My eyes go red in minutes, they start streaming, stinging, hurting.

The sea is totally out, for all the reasons mentioned above.

I feel the cold very, very easily (it's 35°C here today, but the sea's probably no more than 24°C - my teeth would be chattering within 5 minutes; swimming pools are no better) and rarely find the right balance of air temperature/desire to get wet/water temperature that would push me into "going in".

That said, I would love to be able to swim, sliding gracefully through the water, at ease in an element that feels so alien to me it might as well be Neptune. I would love to be able to have fun in the water with my girls, instead of having my heart racing in a pre-panic attack of what the holy fuck I would do if one of them got into trouble and needed my help. I know I've missed out on so much.

I love the fact that C swims like a fish, actively asks for swim lessons (she's been going for years now), loves the water and is totally at ease. Even L - who refuses lessons and has reacted very badly when forced to take them - loves the water and isn't far from teaching herself to swim. Even D, for all his faults, is a great and enthusiastic swimmer.

That just leaves me, fully dressed and under the parasol, feeling like a freak. I said I only went 6 times to the beach last year - it's true, but it's not a sob story: I hated family trips to the beach. I hated feeling so marginal, so much of a freak. I resent not being able to go, sure (no car - D has it - no other means of getting there), but not the actual beachiness of it.

But I always have the sneaking suspicion that maybe, just maybe, I could have become a swimmer. It's a sport that might have suited me, it would have given me a healthy activity, as well as a way to have fun with my girls.

Swimming. Another area of my life in which I have fucked up totally.

Sink or swim? Sink, without a doubt, without a trace.

Code red

2011-06-30T22:49:00.000+02:00

So.

Well.

Yes.

Today was kind of a long day (after a ridiculously long night - awake - or short night - asleep - last night), and this evening seems to be heading the same way as last night too. I've always known that I work best with a deadline, and I seem to get some kind of adrenalin rush out of pushing myself to the absolute limits of do-ability, but seriously, Magic? All-nighters just really don't suit you any more...

OK, so it wasn't quite an all-nighter - but I probably did nothing more than doze at my desk for an hour or so. I did also sneak in a nap this afternoon (another hour and a half). But that's it.

And I still have about 4,000 words to translate tonight, as well as my June (and May for that matter) invoices to do, a quotation to do for another job, tax hassle crap, admin crap, bla, bla, bla.

And of course, school's out tomorrow at 11h45, we're invited to lunch with a friend, I have to pick up another friend's son (same age as C and her best out-of-school friend) at the SAME TIME but from a DIFFERENT SCHOOL and take him along to lunch too, even though I haven't managed to get hold of our hostess to warn her of this at all today. I also have to find the time to do some food shopping at some point as we have essentially nothing to eat in the house (or nothing that anyone wants to eat, anyway).

I'm guessing my afternoon of "work" is pretty much screwed.

On top of that, the girls drove me batshit this evening, what with the bickering, not putting anything away, not doing anything to help, not going to bed and holy crap High School Musical AGAIN.

5 September seems a long way off, I can tell you.

At the same time, I have lots of ideas for cool (I think) things we can do together this summer and I'm kind of looking forward to doing them (assuming I stop staying up all night and manage to a) sleep at night and b) get my work done during the day). I don't want to wish the summer away - I love summer, come alive in warm weather - but I'm certainly going to have find some kind of strategy for getting the girls to be more helpful round the house. As it stands, they only help once I've asked a million times and probably shouted a couple of times as well and I really do feel like some kind of slave.

Of course, the tiredness doesn't help.Nor do Troy and Gabriella's squawking (I don't HATE HSM as much as I hate, say, Dora (though we're pretty much past the Dora phase now), but it is still pretty irritating and those kids just aren't great singers, all nasal and whiny, but with a heavy dose of sugar frosting on top. GAH.).

What I really fancy right now is a week in a swanky spa place with my best friends from England. A luxury hotel, with fluffy towels and crisp sheets (not covered in cat fur), spa treatments and beauty salon, elegant dining and fine wine and - why not? - an inexplicably single Johnny Depp or Jon Hamm at my beck and call. Yum.

Obviously none of that is likely to happen, but a girl can dream, right?

I never learn

2011-06-29T22:34:00.001+02:00

You'd think, by the ripe old age of 42, I'd have learnt from my mistakes by now. I know I certainly imagined that by adulthood - and 42 is most definitely that - I'd have my shit a bit more together.

But no.

I make the same fucking mistakes all. the. time. Like, for example, when I have a slight "lull" work-wise. I never - NEVER - make use of that "lull" to get ahead and do useful stuff. Oh no. I usually just sit about watching crap on TV, crap on the internet or sleeping.

There's nothing inherently WRONG with that, except that I always - ALWAYS - end up in a frazzle when the lull inevitably becomes a veritable shitstorm of work and deadlines and to-do lists and what have you.

Have you guessed that my "lull" has come to an end? I wasted most of yesterday reading blogs, tweeting, FaceBooking and listening to stuff on YouTube (can't stop listening to this right now). And now, of course, I have about 8,500 words to do for either tomorrow or Friday, plus a translation to correct for a student, plus two dissertations to read through for two oral exams tomorrow morning, plus mail to deal with, my credit card to collect, shopping to do, a lunch invite on Friday and a million other things. I'm not detecting much asleep-in-bed-time in my immediate future (oh, I have another 6,600 words for next Tuesday too).

When, oh when will I learn?

Popcorn

2011-06-28T22:56:00.000+02:00

Today was the end-of-term tea party to say "thank you" to the girls' teachers (yes, both on the same day, and actually at the same time, which was practical).

The tea party in C's class was nice and civilised, apart from the class clown being, well, typical of himself. The teacher was very nice about C and seemed deeply touched by the gifts she received.

However, I went to L's class first as it is on the ground floor. Her teacher is retiring this year and was quite emotional. I can't imagine what it would be like to teach at the same school for 27 years... and more than half of them in 1st grade...

But she did make me laugh - she gave a little speech, saying how much she'd enjoyed her final year of teaching CP (the French equivalent of 1st grade) and how much she'll miss the children, despite them being a "class of popcorn".

It is absolutely the perfect description of L: pale, light and incapable of staying still for more than a nanosecond!

Watching the class "in action", so to speak - talking, babbling, bustling - they really did look just like grains of corn "popping" in a pan, and I haven't been able to stop calling L "Popcorn" all evening, changing it to "Palomita" (the Spanish for popcorn, meaning "little dove", which I've always thought adorable) at bed time.

And, of course, I haven't been able to get the music, Popcorn, out of my head either. Particularly this version, which just cracks me up.

Where I am from

2011-06-27T22:40:00.001+02:00

OK, so everyone's done this today, but I actually picked it up from Avitable (of course!). I strongly suspect most other versions of this will read more poetically than mine, but you know me, incapable of resisting a meme of any kind, so I'm going to give it a go all the same... Sorry if it sounds bitter and resentful...

I am from red tinsel Christmas trees, stolen by my mother from a work dance in the 1960s, from a Spitfire sports car, lovingly stored in our garage for as long as I can remember (and long before that).

I am from the cottage in Hertfordshire, so idyllic sounding, yet a place from which I have no memories, a haven, a gardener's delight.

I am from the daffodils and crocuses, baby thrushes and hedgehogs, an unfortunate stick insect named Henry.
I am from Brussels sprouts with Christmas lunch and sherry before dinner, from pale skin and freckles, from the Mackintosh clan and all the Williams and Bills and Billys on my father's side, and a traditional Scottish nickname for Christine.

I am from the dysfunctional, let's-not-get-to-know-each-other family, the let's-all-die-young-or-join-a-sect family.

From "you were a mistake" and "you're our only child, it all depends on you" (thanks, guys, no pressure there, then).

I am from Scottish Episcopalians and (very lapsed) Church of Englanders, raised without faith, not christened, to avoid family feuding but causing bad blood all the same, growing up to distrust religion and the effects it has on people, raised in a family with Jehovah's Witnesses but never knowing them.

I'm from Hertfordshire in England, out of the north east of England and the north east of Scotland, with a dash of Viking thrown in for good measure, from vanilla icecream and cheese.

From the grandfather I never knew, born in 1885 and an ambulance driver at the Battle of the Somme in July 1916, a man who owned a hotel in Scotland and was a success until the Depression, when he lost everything and ended up a chauffeur for a cruel, Dickensian gentleman farmer, the grandfather who married a woman 11 years his junior only for her to die, suddenly, at the age of 59, whilst he, my grandfather, was driving his boss to Aberdeen, and my other grandfather, who I also never knew, who, with his best friend, saved a man from drowning in the North Sea, but whilst the friend drowned and was given a posthumous medal, my grandfather, who survived, received nothing.

I am from an old, brown leather suitcase with rusting clasps, full to the brim with ageing photos of people I don't know, people I never met, a happy chest of my mother's, with invitations and corsages from happier times.

Last week

2011-06-26T22:32:00.000+02:00

This is the last week of school in the girls' year. By lunch time on Friday, CM1 (4th grade) and CP (1st grade) will be over, and the long summer holiday will be before us.

9 whole weeks, if you can believe it.

Fuck me.

I have the sneaking suspicion that the TV and DVD player will be my best friends this summer - I'll be working for all but 2 of those weeks, even if I won't necessarily have huge amounts of work all the time. And D is so damn fucking unreliable that I know I can't count on him to help me out in any way (I don't think he even knows what "punctuality" means - he frequently turns up over an hour late, sometimes even more and never really apologises. It drives me batshit).

I would love to give the girls a really good summer, and I think I've done my best for this year: two different friends are coming, both for two weeks (though we won't see them every day), one late July/early August, the other the last 2 weeks of August; the girls have a circus and trampoline course every afternoon one week in August, we're going to Genoa for a week... I'm doing OK, I think.

But still. I know there will be lots of time spent at home, with no particular programme, while I try and get work done. And that means TV, or bickering. And a serious dent in my sanity.

I feel kind of guilty in advance, but I don't have any money for more stuff (the circus/trampoline thing, plus Genoa, are both unreasonable to be honest; I certainly can't afford more). I want to be able to go out for meals, eat icecreams, go to the cinema, but I'm just not sure how much of that will be possible.

I'm doing my best. I always try and do my best, but fuck me, it's hard.

This is the last week of school, in a year that I feel has flown by. Here's to hoping for a good summer.

Total Festum

2011-06-25T23:49:00.000+02:00

There is a Brazilian-Occitan music festival, "Total Festum", in full swing almost literally right outside my window. The various groups have been at it since about 2 pm, and it's been gradually picking up speed. Now, at almost midnight, the music - mainly beating drums and flutes from what I can tell - is really quite loud.

I look out the window, across the street to the car park opposite and I can see the stage, the crowds, the lights. I can hear the music, see the people dancing, having a good time.

I feel old and out of touch, though to be honest, I'm not sure I've ever really been young.

I sit here, at my computer, and I've been watching "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button". The film (which I've enjoyed much more than "Vicky Cristina Barcelona") is sweet and touching. But most of all, Brad Pitt is drop-dead-gorgeous once he gets to the 1960s (roughly his real age, actually).

And you know what? I am perfectly content to be here, virtually alone, watching Beautiful Brad, chugging down my Diet Coke. I have no desire whatsoever to be out there with the crowd, listening to Occitan music (haven't heard anything that I would identify as Brazilian), dancing among strangers in the dark.

I am old, and undoubtedly dull. I accept that.

In the eye of the beholder

2011-06-24T23:13:00.000+02:00

Beauty, as defined by the Concise Oxford English Dictionary © 2008 Oxford University Press:

beauty/ˈbjuːti/

▶noun (pl. beauties)

1 a combination of qualities that delights the aesthetic senses.
2 [as modifier] denoting something intended to make someone more attractive: beauty treatment.
3 a beautiful woman.
4 an excellent example of something.
5 an attractive feature or advantage.
– origin ME: from OFr. beaute, based on L. bellus ‘beautiful, fine’.

I am not a beautiful woman. I have no illusions (or delusions) at that level, even if my sweet girls tell me they think I am beautiful (I suspect they won't always think this; I'm trying to make the most of it). My skin is horrible, I don't take care of myself as well as I should (or even at all, on many days), my hair is a disaster, my teeth are typically British and unattractive, I'm chunky around the stomach-hips-thighs... I could go on, but you get the drift.

Added to that is the fact that, living in the south of France with my daughters attending a private school frequented by the kids of doctors and lawyers, I see what I would consider beautiful women just about everywhere. Some of it is a question of grooming - maybe if I paid more attention to the way I looked and dressed I could be OK too - but there is, most definitely, a French "look" (well-off, well-groomed, well-dressed women) that I will most definitely never have.

Most of the time, I'm OK with the way I look. Sure, I'd like to lose a few kilos and get back to the size I was pre-children. But I'm not overweight, I'm not fat and I don't think I'm ugly exactly. So I'm pretty much OK with the whole thing.

But sometimes, just sometimes, I see something, watch something and it's like a shockwave running through me. Today, I downloaded (paid for, legally) Woody Allen's "Vicky Cristina Barcelona" and watched it instead of working this afternoon. I didn't particularly enjoy the film - I've loved many Woody Allen films, but this one, no. Deeply dissatisfying, I found. Frustrating, even - but there was something about the way Juan Antonio (Javier Bardem) looked at Cristina (ScarJo), touched her, caressed her that made me realise something.

Not the obvious - that ScarJo is way more beautiful than I could ever, ever have been, even when I was her age - no. It was that beauty is the way someone makes you feel. And no one, no man, has ever made me feel beautiful.

In the 14 years D and I were together, he frequently made fun of my clothes, rarely made compliments. He made me feel like a freak, in fact. On the rare occasions he compared me to someone famous, he invariably chose men - old, unattractive and often even DEAD men: Louis XIV, Churchill, Giscard d'Estaing. You can imagine how that made me feel because seriously? Who would want to be compared physically to any of those?. I'm not saying he should have said I look like Angelina Jolie because that's blatantly untrue, but even no comparisons at all would have been better than Churchill.

As I said, I have no delusions whatsoever about my looks. I wasn't a beautiful child, and I'm not a beautiful woman. And really, I'm OK with that. But it would have been nice to have felt that my imperfect body, hair, skin, teeth were beautiful to someone. And, although D did on occasion give the odd compliment, the opposite was more frequent. I have never felt the way Juan Antonio made Cristina feel. No man's touch has ever made me feel special, or beautiful or even attractive.

Beauty is, as they say, in the eye of the beholder, and I have the distinct impression that no one has ever beholden me with an eye that sees beauty.

And I've realised that I really am NOT OK with that.

Firsts

2011-06-23T00:43:00.000+02:00

You know I'm a sucker for a meme - and I got this one from Life of a Doctor's Wife. Although many of my answers are pathetic and woe-is-me-ish, I'm not actively looking for sympathy or anything resembling commiseration; I'm merely stating fact!

1. Who was your first prom date?
In my last two years of school, we had "school dances" which were about as similar to a prom as my stuffy all-girl British private school could manage. Most of my friends had dates, but I was totally invisible and socially inept so I was asked to invite a guy I barely knew but who was friends with my friends' dates. We were in a group, but I was still hideously aware of the fact that I didn't have a real date. (At university, the residences had "dances" too. I was never invited to one, and for my own, I invited a friend (nothing romantic between us AT ALL) and he got so drunk he became violent. So yeah, that was fun. For my university grad ball, I still didn't have a date and invited my former roommate (a girl) just so she could attend and see all our friends. My love life (ha!) has been a total disaster - I must be a freak of some kind.)
2. Who was your first roommate?
In my first year at university, I shared a room with a petite, dark-haired beauty with amazing clothes and shoes. Every guy at the university fancied her. We became great friends, shared a flat after that room, went on holidays together and only lost touch when she married a mega-rich Pakistani business man and converted to Islam (oh yeah - her then only son was a spoiled brat and we had an argument about him trying to bite C).

3. What was your first alcoholic beverage?
Family legend has it that a "wee drop" of whisky was put in my bottle of milk when I was 3 months old - my grandfather had just died and my parents and I had had to travel to the north of England (from London) overnight. I apparently wouldn't sleep and wouldn't stop squawking, so my grandmother suggested the whisky. It worked, so I've been told, but I've never drunk whisky since - even the smell of it makes me want to barf!

4. What was your first job?
I worked as a waitress in a winebar the summer I was 19. It was hard work, and put me off restaurants (the owner had one essential rule: any food you drop goes back on the plate. Except lasagna, which cannot be picked up. I often order lasagna now...).

5. What was your first car?
I passed my driving test when I was 21 (half my life ago!) and have essentially never driven since (perhaps 3 hours' driving since, in total, all before 1995). With my now ex, I did buy a car in 2001 - a Hyundai Accent, but obviously I never drove it, my ex did.

6. When did you go to your first funeral?
Although many members of my family died all through my childhood, I think the first funeral I actually attended was my grandmother's, in 1988. I spent the night before travelling to it on the beach in St Andrews, watching the sun come up over the North Sea with friends and felt remarkable peace at the beauty of the spectacle.

7. How old were you when you first moved away from your hometown?
18 - I left my parents' home in the south of England to go to university in St Andrews (about 900 miles away) in Scotland and never really went back, apart from the odd holiday now and then.
8. Who was your first grade teacher?
No idea, but it was a man. That year, I was the only girl in a strict, old-fashioned boys' school in southern Scotland that had just decided to take girls. It felt like something from Dickens - no heating ("to toughen you up"), corporal punishment (6 year olds! getting our palms whacked with a metal ruler!), very strict teachers... I've blanked out much of that year, to be honest.

9. Where did you go on your first airplane ride?
I think it was probably when I was 14 and my parents booked our first ever holiday abroad (they used to go abroad in the 1960s, but never after I was born), in Spain one half term. We flew from Gatwick to Girona.

10. When you sneaked out of your house for the first time, who was it with?
My parents always lived miles away from a) school b) my friends and c) civilisation, so I never sneaked out to be with someone or go somewhere. I did, however, sneak out and go up into the garden to dance around in the moonlight (you have to remember that the TV series "Fame!" was a big thing when I was young teen...!)

11. Who was your first Best Friend and are you still friends with them?
My first real best friend was a girl called Sara, whom I met when I was 11, in our first year at middle school. We met in September 1980. I haven't seen her since 1997, I don't think, but we are still in touch - we send Christmas and birthday cards - but I suspect we don't have much in common any more.

12. Where did you live the first time you moved out of your parents’ house?
See #2 and #7 - I lived in an all-girl university hall of residence (not by choice, I applied too late for the mixed halls) in St Andrews in Scotland, about an hour north of Edinburgh.

13. Who is the first person you call when you have a bad day?
No one. I hate the phone and never call anyone if I can help it. If I'm having a bad day, I tend to curl up in bed with my cat, or write on this blog or FaceBook. I would talk to my best friends if they were nearby, but I'm in the south of France and they're all in England, so I just hold it all in, write it all down, try and get by on my own.

14. Whose wedding were you in the first time you were a bridesmaid or a groomsman?
My grandmother rented out one of her bedrooms when I was very young. The girl in question, Jane, asked me to be her only bridesmaid when she got married. I was 6. It was a magical day for me, though apparently the bride's mother deeply resented my (and my family's) presence because we weren't posh enough. My mother spent the day furious, but I had a great time, and a pretty dress and SILVER shoes that I loved with all my heart. I've never been a bridesmaid since (haven't actually been to that many weddings to be honest).

15. What is the first thing you do in the morning?
Either feed the cat or open the shutters.

16. What was the first concert you attended?
I'm not a huge fan of concerts - when I was a teenager, smoking was allowed and I loathe cigarette smoke and react badly to it (red, streaming eyes, I lose my voice, I cough...) so I rarely went to concerts. I did see Level 42 when I was about 17 I think.

17. First tattoo or piercing?
No tattoos, no piercings. Not now, not ever most likely.

18. First celebrity crush?
John Travolta, after I saw Grease at the cinema in 1978. Easy.

19. First crush?
Probably a boy called Kit at the boys' school I mentioned in #8. He was older - probably 11 or so - but left the school the same time I did (half way through the year, we were the only two leaving). At our last school assembly, the headmaster announced that we were leaving and we had to go up on stage to shake hands with the teaching staff. As we walked forward, one of the assistants told him to hold my hand (I was 7), which he did, rather grudgingly, though obviously I was absolutely delighted! He was blond and athletic and I thought he was wonderful!

20. First real love?
I thought it was my ex. We were together for 14 years, I'd never had anything resembling a relationship before him (just the occasional "fling", usually involving some kind of humiliation for me) and really thought he was "the one". I imagined us growing old together. But that all went pear-shaped last year, so maybe I've never really been in love, never actually found my "first real love"... And at 42, it seems unlikely that I ever will now...

Seeing red

2011-06-22T22:03:00.000+02:00

I've always had a hot temper. I like to think it's because I have red hair, but it might just be some kind of character flaw that has nothing to do with my hair colour.

It's also always struck me as mildly amusing that so many people (people who clearly don't know me very well and/or don't live in my immediate vicinity) see me as "calm" and "unflappable". What a joke.

I'm actually beginning to think that I might even need anger management classes.

The anger I feel just bubbles away inside me, allowing my deceptively calm exterior to fool a certain number of people, and then suddenly... BANG! It explodes, loudly, messily, embarrassingly.

I nearly always regret losing my temper - I say things I don't mean, I express myself badly, I shout so loud I've been known to damage my voice, I break things, I slam doors - but it just bursts out of me, with such violence, such force that I know I am totally incapable of controlling it.

Unfortunately, my sweet little girls seem to bear the brunt of it nowadays. I shout at them so much more than I mean to, I'm so impatient, so intolerant, so downright crabby most of the time with them, and I know they don't deserve it (to be fair, they're also pretty crap at doing what I ask - clothes draped over all the furniture for days on end, used Kleenex not picked up, homework not done unless I physically make them, no help given unless I ask for it). And yes, they went to bed crying again this evening. And I feel like shit. Again.

I'm angry about just about everything I can think of, myself first and foremost. I hate myself for failing to get stuff done, failing to maintain this small house in any kind of presentable state, failing to eat properly, failing to get over D's departure. I hate myself for not being able to give my girls the life I would have liked for them, I hate that I'm so intolerant of everyone, everything.

Then, I'm angry at D. Oh, so very, very angry. He doesn't get it, but I blame him for just about all the shit in my life these last 18 months. I blame him for destroying our family, destroying our couple (14 fucking years up in smoke...). I blame him for forcing me to live such a damn miserable fucking life.

After that, I'm just angry. I'm angry at cyclists cycling on pavements, going through stop signs and red lights, going the wrong way down one-way streets; I'm angry at snarky administrations.

Just angry at the world in general, to be honest.

There isn't a single day I'm not feeling angry about one thing or another.

I know it can't be good for me, it can't be healthy (though there isn't much that I do that's healthy), but I can't switch it off, calm down, relax. I know even going on holiday will be a source of conflict (the girls will annoy me, I know they will, and I'll feel angry with D for screwing up holidays - leaving me alone, without adult company).

I'm scared of who I've become, of how miserable, angry, snarky, impatient and just downright nasty I seem to be most of the time, worst of all, with the only two people I love more than life itself.

I scare myself.

Bah, humbug

2011-06-21T19:04:00.000+02:00

I strongly suspect I'm some kind of grouchy curmudgeon who is wholly unsuited to life amongst other human beings. People just BUG THE SHIT OUT OF ME, sooooo damn easily.

I've always had issues with patience and tolerance, and seriously? Those issues just seem to be getting worse (or maybe it's just that people in the south of France and more particularly irritating - that is a very real possibility).

I'm not going to bore you with the details of my utterly frustrating day - in which I trudged miles in blazing sun whilst spectacularly failing to accomplish what I set out to do, partly because I don't drive (I know, I know) and partly because GAH. PEOPLE. GAH.

But I will tell you that I'm getting pretty good at being snarky and - let's be honest - downright unpleasant on the phone with dickheads.

In addition, here in France, 21 June is the "Fête de la Musique" and I become even more delightfully curmudgeonly as a result.

This Fête, inaugurated back in 1980-something by foppish Champagne Socialist Jack Lang, celebrates music (duh). Every town, city and village has its official programme, more or less elaborate. Montpellier is a biggish city, so there are "official" events set up all over the place (there's a huge esplanade place about 100 m from where I live, so obviously there's a stage set up there, for example), and most bars have some kind of musical entertainment planned for tonight. In addition to that, all kinds of opportunistic events set up their speakers on street corners, seeming to believe that their music is fantastic as long as you play it loud enough.

And this is my main gripe with the Fête - it's so damn LOUD. Some of the bands playing are quite good, but would be infinitely better (in my opinion) if they didn't use those damn amplifiers. The cacophony in the city centre is downright unbearable (imagine different groups on just about every street corner or small square, all blaring their music - it's hideous), not to mention the huge crowds everywhere.

Obviously, I won't be going out tonight because I'm alone at home with the girls. But I'm absolutely not bothered - even before D left, I rarely went out, he usually went either alone or with friends, not me (as I said, I'm not suited for life amongst humans apparently) - but I AM bothered by the fact that there will be music blaring at me from at least 2 different places - the aforementioned esplanade place, where there's a huge stage set up, and a bar about 3 doors down, also with a stage set up outside it - most likely into the small hours of the morning.

I can't believe I'm such a curmudgeon. When I was young, I loved to go out dancing and stuff (though I have never been to many concerts, mainly because I react so badly to cigarette smoke, which obviously wasn't banned back then) but now? Can't be arsed. I DO still like dancing, but prefer (or rather, would prefer if the occasion were to arise, which it hasn't for as long as I can remember) private parties, with friends, not huge crowds of increasingly drunk strangers.

So yeah. Bah, humbug indeed.

This is, technically, the longest day of the year, but I suspect it'll feel more like the longest night.

Fallout

2011-06-21T00:03:00.000+02:00

I often - very, very often, in fact - wonder what it would have been like to have grown up in a large, tight-knit family. My family is, at least technically, fairly large (I have a lot of cousins, for example) but in reality, pitifully small.

On my father's side, my grandfather died a few weeks after I was born, my grandmother when I was just 19 and my aunt, whom I loved most dearly, died of cancer when I was 21 (she was married to an arsehole and had no children, even though she would have been a wonderful, wonderful mother). There were a lot of "uncles" (presumably my father's, not possibly mine) and "cousins", but we didn't really see any of them and certainly don't have contact now.

On my mother's side, things are worse still. My mother (who died in 2003) was the youngest of 5 children. Her eldest sister died when I was 6, her only brother died a few years ago (quite a few, I think, though I couldn't really say, I probably only met him a handful of times) and the middle sister died probably about 20 years ago. That middle sister was kind of out of the loop, though, because she was a fanatical Jehovah's Witness, so again, I didn't know her or her husband and never knowingly met any of their 3 sons (my cousins), all presumably much older than I am.

The sister nearest my mother in age - 7 years older - lived in Africa with her husband (now dead) and four children. They all moved back to Britain gradually, more or less when I moved to France. I've probably never spent more than a few hours with any of them.

So yeah, it's all pretty dysfunctional. My family can basically be summarised as my father and one cousin - the son of my mother's eldest sister, though he's 65 now and has always felt more like an uncle than a cousin.

All this because I had a mild tiff with D's mother on the phone this weekend and I'm now waiting for the fall-out to hit. I know I shouldn't have said so much to her, I shouldn't have let rip quite so much with what I think of D and his behavious, I certainly shouldn't have said what my feelings are for D. But there really is no one else right now.

Mother's Day

2011-06-19T23:51:00.000+02:00

You probably think I'm crazy - it isn't actually "Mother's Day" in Britain, France or the US today, it's Father's Day.

But today would have been my mother's day - her birthday. If she hadn't died on 13 August 2003, she would have been 78 today, which sounds amazingly old. I can't imagine her old like that; she was 70 when she died (though she looked like she was about 100 - a barely living skeleton, shrunken skin and bone, no spark in her eyes, no impression that she had any idea of who she was, where she was...) and in my memories of her before she became this other person, this stranger I didn't know, she was pretty much a wild child, a free spirit, obsessed with the moon and the stars, a lover of the sun and nature and birds. An artist in her soul, always sketching, reciting poetry, singing songs.

My mother and I had a strained and distant relationship (I've talked about this before) and she really didn't know me very well. She projected through me, and was disappointed that I didn't have her artistic talent (I'm not bad, but she was good). She became proud of me, but still. I'm pretty sure she considered me responsible for screwing up her life, making her leave the job she loved, making her a lonely, isolated housewife who did nothing to help herself and gradually became bitter.

She loved her birthday, loved being a Gemini, loved being born in the summer, during the season of roses and warmth and long days. She hated the winter months with a passion, was remarkably sensitive to cold for someone born in the north-east of Scotland and brought up in a house with neither heating nor electricity nor running water. She hated the short days.

I've said it before, I know, but I don't actually miss my mother. I miss, instead, the mother I never had, the mother I would have liked to have had, someone to confide in, someone to teach me things, guide me, help me become an adult. She had many qualities, but she failed in those respects, teaching me nothing of the ways of the world, giving me no insight into love and romance, never giving me "the talk", never considering me as anything more than a child.

For all her failings as the mother of a daughter, however, I'm pretty sure she would have made a wonderful grandmother to my little girls, and that is what I miss about her the most, perhaps. The fact that she never got to know C properly (they met twice, once when C was 7 months old, once the day before she died, when C was 19 months old) and never met L at all (she wasn't conceived till just after my mother's death) is perhaps my biggest regret.

But we'll never know what she would have been like. She's been dead for almost 8 years now, and the mother I remember seems a lifetime ago.

Whatever.

Happy Birthday, Mummy. I never forget this day, how much you loved it. It will always be your birthday in my heart.

Coup de blues

2011-06-18T19:45:00.000+02:00

(By the way, yes, yesterday was a stunningly long day, spent mainly on my feet, making my ankles swell most attractively and leaving me with aching muscles today (which says a lot about my overall muscle tone and fitness, I feel), but we had a good time!)

So. Today. Another long day, actually. Going to the market, wrapping birthday presents, taking C to a birthday party and picking her up, plus all the usual cooking, working, bla, bla, bla.

Why the "coup de blues"? Tomorrow is Father's Day, and that alone leaves me feeling a little strange. I've bought a small gift on behalf of the girls, plus they've made stuff at school, but it's always these "special" days that are the hardest.

On top of that, the summer holidays are almost upon us and it's still a struggle for me to accept that things - everything, actually - are so different. Hearing everyone at the fête yesterday going on about how they're going to this place or that place "as a family" is hard. We'll never do anything as a "family" again, just as 3/4 of a family. Don't get me wrong - I don't miss D, and I certainly don't want him back, but I do miss the "family of 4" thing, I really do.

And last of all, the party C went to this afternoon was at a friend's house, though I use the word "house" rather loosely. The kid's home is amazingly beautiful, with a spectacular garden and pool. I'm not jealous, exactly, but I am jealous of all these people around me who don't have to worry about money all. the. time. It's probably the thought that occupies me the most (that and the fear of spending the rest of my life alone), and I'm so tired of having to worry about every single euro I spend, always a little anxious when I pay for something by credit card in case it's refused, always scrimping and saving.

I would so love to be able to not worry about money. I'm not asking to be rich, just to not have that fear in my mind all the time.

The longest day

2011-06-17T05:16:00.000+02:00

I know, I know, this isn't technically the longest day of the year, but I wasn't actually talking about sun hours or the like.

No, today is the annual, end-of-year school fête and extravaganza.

As a member of the Parents' Association, I'm actively involved, and my involvement starts at 8.30 this morning, when I'll be setting up the various games (drawing chalk lines, preparing equipment...), then moving (seemingly endless numbers of) tables, cutting up melons, making sandwiches, etc., along with a small army of other parents willing to give up their Friday morning.

The school closes at 11.45, so I'll bring the girls home, try and find something to feed them, have a quick shower and then head back to school at about 2.30.

The fête part of the day starts at 3.30 and goes on till 5.30. After that, I'll be helping put all the games away till next year.

And then, at 6, the "shows" start, each class performing some kind of choreography. The first batch are the kindergarteners, then there's an hour's break, and finally, at about 8 the primary kids start. L's class are dancing to the theme music from Pirates of the Caribbean and are dressed (of course) as pirates, C's class are dancing to "Everybody needs somebody" from The Blues Brothers.

The shows usually finish around 10, and then I'll be staying to help with the general clear-up.

I'm guessing it'll be midnight by the time we make it home, tired but happy (as they say).

This event is much-looked forward to and is mightily impressive. And I must admit to be kind of excited for it myself, even if it involves more than 15 hours' participation on my part...

One of those days

2011-06-16T19:01:00.000+02:00

You know what it's like. Your alarm goes off in the morning, and it all goes downhill from there.

I mean, this hasn't (by any means) been a BAD day, just a frustrating one, a day in which I feel like I've walked a hundred miles and done a thousand things but have actually achieved pretty much nothing. Nothing I intended to do, anyway.

Let's ignore the fact that I got up at 5 this morning (I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep, so decided to just fuck it and get up anyway), although of course tiredness probably played a part in the frustrating-ness of today.

I prepared for an oral exam (not me - I was part of the jury), correcting the student's work, etc. A positive - though bone-crushingly dull - start. I got the girls up and ready for school, which is always a somewhat fraught process, and got them to school on time.

I came home and did some paperworky stuff and then headed off for the exam, getting home at 11.30.

I spent over an hour sifting through the detritus on, around, on the floor beside and shelf above my desk, looking for a specific document. I did eventually find it, but all those areas remain a mess and nothing's been properly sifted. BECAUSE I SUCK AT TIDYING. But I did find what I was looking for, so I suppose there's that.

Then I spoke to D on the phone because I needed a document he has (all this is to enrol the girls in a week-long sports day camp in July). And which he CAN'T FIND.

First major frustration.

So, I set off to do the enrolling, even though one important document was missing, and trekked all the way across the city, on foot and by tram.

I got to the address displayed the most prominently on the web site (address, map...), only to learn that a) I wasn't in the right place and b) the right place is in fact even FURTHER away, in a totally different direction again. By then, I'd missed my time slot AND didn't have time to get there and back by school time, so I now have another appointment next week.

Second major frustration.

The actual address is on the site, but there's no map and it isn't nearly as prominent as the wrong one (which is where the camp takes place, in fact, but not the organisation's offices). I'm pretty pissed off, I can tell you.

Then I had to go spend more money on yet another birthday present (both girls are invited to different parties this Saturday) and rush back to pick up the girls.

You see? Not a bad day at all, but it's now 7 pm and I've still done basically nothing. This means I've got work to do this evening, but of course I'm exhausted and all I actually want to do is sleep...

Plus, tomorrow is the school end-of-year extravaganza. I'll be at school all morning, setting up the various games, moving tables, getting stuff ready (not on my own, of course, but it's pretty intense work all the same), then have the girls home for lunch, spend the afternoon at the school fete and the evening watching the shows and clearing up. I won't get home till about midnight I should think.

So, yeah. I really don't feel like working tonight. Just sleeeeeeeeeping.

Sorry. This has been really, really boring, hasn't it? I'll try and do better tomorrow!

Spineless but excited

2011-06-15T14:32:00.000+02:00

I trust you all know me well enough now to have guessed that I gave in to the temptation...

Yup, the girls and I are heading to Genoa this summer for 5 days of fun and games. I booked the hotel very early this morning and the three of us went to get our train tickets this afternoon.

I know I'm taking a financial risk (to be honest, I was surprised that my credit card didn't get rejected...), but to hell with it. I need a break, I need to get away from the stress and strain of this life, I need a change of air. And I am now sooooo excited!

I spent a while last night surfing sites about what to do in Genoa and there are some really cool things - the aforementioned aquarium, but also a whole "village" down by the harbour - biosphere, museum of the sea, humming bird forest, science museum for children - plus the old town and it's cathedral, palaces...

I CAN'T WAIT, people!

Temptation

2011-06-14T19:47:00.000+02:00

Hell's bells, I don't know what to do. I am sorely tempted - "sorely" to the point of almost actual physical pain - to just go ahead and do something that is probably unreasonable and rash.

I KNOW it's unreasonable and rash, but I SO BADLY WANT TO DO IT!

But I'm a logical creature by nature, and I'm well aware that to do something so clearly unreasonable and rash would cause me problems further down the road.

So, the dilemma:

This has been a hard year (as in twelve-month period and as in 2011-so-far). I've worked hard, I've struggled, I've had many downs and further downs (and a few ups, it's true) and I'm bone-crushingly tired. I spent 24 hours in the country and that was my first trip outside of Montpellier (except for the two trips to the airport, collecting my father and taking him back in April/may) since God-knows-when. Many, many months. I don't remember the last time I went anywhere that wasn't in Montpellier - it's most likely when we went to England in late October/early November, and before that it was August in Carnon. I just don't get out much.

On the other hand, and despite all the working hard, I'm still hopelessly in debt. I owe money all over the place, I have no savings and I basically seem to live from hand to mouth. I certainly can't afford to splurge.

In the midst of all this, is the fact that Novotel are now offering their 50% off deal in selected city hotels throughout the world.

I went on the site, and the Novotel in Genoa is at 52 €/night. I also checked trains and stuff and could get the three of us there and back for 180 €. If we stayed 5 nights, that would be 440 €. On top of that, we'd need lunch and dinner, plus tickets to the Genoa aquarium (the "biggest in Europe", at least at some fairly recent time) and other attractions in the city and miscellaneous "other expenses".

I sooooo badly want to go, and I know I'll go into self-pity mode if I don't (or, worse, dither for days on end, decide I want to do it and then find there are no more rooms available). But I also know I can't really afford it. I would like to go away, just for a few days, with the girls. Bilbao was difficult because all this (being alone stuff) was still so new. But we had fun all the same, plus I'm hardened now, I could do it with more tranquillity, more serenity, more self-assurance this time.

Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?

(On the "go for it" side of things, there is the fact that I have 300 € in cash that my father gave me for my birthday - I've technically spent it (as in, I've bought myself stuff, but with my credit card, not the actual hard cash) but not literally, so that's a good chunk of holiday spending money right there. But I'd still need an at least equally big chunk more.)

No surprise

2011-06-13T19:49:00.000+02:00

I'm sure it'll come as no surprise to anyone reading this, but we actually had a pretty good time out at my friend's place in the country.

She came and picked us up last night at about 7 pm, we spent a pleasant evening chatting and playing with their adorable 6-week-old kitten, Pantoufle, and we were all in bed early. I mean, no, the girls (C and L, and my friend's daughter A, who's the same age as C) went to sleep ridiculously late - as is often the case with sleepovers - but I was in bed earlier than I have been for months, even if I didn't actually sleep till midnight (which was still an improvement).

The only trouble with going to bed so early is that I woke up at 4.45 am and couldn't get back to sleep. I read for a (long) while and eventually got up at about 8 when I heard someone moving around.

After breakfast, the girls headed up to the pool (so, around 10 I guess) and probably didn't spend more than an hour or so out of it all day - they had a fabulous time!

I helped my friend get things ready, and chatted with the other (adult) guests. I'm never wholly comfortable in social situations in which I don't know people, but today was OK. Better than most. And my friend, S, is a considerate hostess who always makes you welcome.

It's all a lesson for me to stop being so negative because this was a good day, despite the thunderstorm late afternoon.

It was nice to get away for few hours, to be somewhere else (and somewhere else that is amazing - a huge, beautiful house, massive gardens, pool...), to be with other people. I know I should make more effort to get out and do stuff. This was fun and did us all good. I just have to find a way to continue in this way now.

Long weekend

2011-06-12T15:42:00.000+02:00

Is it mean-spirited of me to hate these oh-so-French and oh-so-common-at-this-time-of-year "long weekends"? We've already had a four-day weekend (five-day for kids as they have no school on Wednesdays), in honour of "Ascension Thursday" on 2 June, now we have "Pentecost Monday" tomorrow.

I'm pretty sure these "long weekends" are a great thing if you have the kind of job that a) pays you even if you don't work that day (not like my teaching, for example: any teaching day that falls on a public holiday either has to be moved to another date or not paid) and b) implies working in an office or somewhere out of the house. It must be great to not have work to do, just like that.

When you work from home, and are too poor to turn down any work, "public holidays" cease to exist, just as weekends cease to exist. Worse than that: they're regular work days WITH THE CHILDREN AT HOME ALL DAY.

I guess it is mean-spirited.

I should love having my girls home with me; I should love having the time to do stuff with them, go places with them, hang out with them. But the truth is, I don't actually have time to do all that, so I end up resenting the days when they are here: I'm frustrated because I can't concentrate properly on my work and, at the same time, can't just hang out with my little girls.

Gah.

That said, we have been invited to lunch tomorrow (Monday) with a friend who lives out in the middle of nowhere. So far out into the middle of nowhere, in fact, that she's picking us up this evening and we're spending the night. Then she'll bring us back tomorrow, probably late afternoonish.

The girls are thrilled at the prospect - this friend has a daughter the same age as C and the three of them get along famously. They also love sleepovers.

I, however (and this will come as no surprise to you), am a little less enthusiastic. I'm a homebody, I love sleeping in my own bed, and a night away puts me outside my comfort zone. Also, this friend is someone I'm not particularly close to and with whom I actually have little in common. She's nice, and kind, and well-meaning, but I'm concerned that 24 hours together might just be a little too much. We'll see. Oh, and there's also Tom, who's going to be on his own for 24 hours and he HATES that, so I'll likely find cat vomit on my bed or some such delight on arriving home.

But I'm not a complete grinch (contrary to popular belief) and I am grateful that this friend thought of me, thought of us and is going to so much trouble for us. I'm sure we'll have a great time: I haven't been anywhere in so long that it no doubt will do me good to get away for a bit.

I just can't be arsed, to be honest.

Right where I am: 3,986 days

2011-06-11T03:24:00.001+02:00

I'm writing this post as part of the "Right where I am" project, in the hope that someone, somewhere might take comfort from it.

My elder daughter, my first child, my first miracle, conceived totally naturally after more than two years of trying and tests and procedures was stillborn on 13 July 2000. Yes, that's coming up to 11 years ago, something I find it hard to get my head around myself.

I'm not going to go into the horrors of what happened that night/day - it still remains unspeakably painful and there are so many regrets. So much I didn't know, that I didn't do.

But that's the past.

Since that terrible, bleak time, I have had two more little girls - one born in December 2001 after an extremely tense and difficult pregnancy, and one born in April 2004, after a still tense and difficult but less so pregnancy.

Apart from one of my best friends (who has had her own fair share of trauma and heartbreak), who lives in a different coutry to me and whom I see at most for a couple of days a year, I don't think there is anyone on earth who even remembers my first daughter, much less her birthday.

Even her father, the father of all my girls but now my ex (and I'm not going to go back over THAT trainwreck tonight, either) doesn't say anything on her birthday. I suspect he does still remember her, but hey, he's a guy, he's not going to talk about it.

Every year, on 13 July, I buy something containing or scented with lavendar. It's one of my favourite flowers and there are bushes of it outside the hospital where my baby died and was born. I remember smelling it that same afternoon, picking a stem off a bush and crushing it in my hands. It's the one single scent that will always remind me of my daughter.

My other girls know nothing - yet - of their big sister. One day, when I feel able to talk about her without breaking down in tears, I will tell them. I think they need to know how very much they were wanted, how very hard it was for their father and I to have children, how they are and will always be our world.

I don't cry for my dead daughter any more (OK, sometimes, but really, not so much), and the pain has eased a lot. Really. I still hate the question "How many children do you have?" and I'll always feel guilty when I say "2", but I no longer feel the need to explain my first child. I live my life every day, rarely even thinking about her. Her sisters are my world, my concern, my life now, and they take up all my time. And that's as it should be.

But.

That little girl - who was never even given a name officially, though she has always been Eva in my mind as it was one of the names we'd started to think about - is deep in my heart, in a very special place. She was my first born, my true miracle. I let her down, in so many ways, even after she died. I didn't defend her rights, I let bad things happen to her and I will never forgive myself for my ignorance, my self-pity, my cowardice. But I hope, as I strive continually to do my very best for her little sisters, that she knows, wherever she is, that I love her with all my heart.

And I will always, always remember her birthday.

French bureaucracy SUCKS

2011-06-10T10:02:00.001+02:00

France is famous for its administrative and bureaucratic red tape craptasticness (that is totally a real word). And for a reason.

I teach English at the University here, except that that University is actually divided into a whole slew of different (read: independent) parts (Arts University, Science University, Economics University... etc.). I teach at the first two (arts and science), as well as "Polytech" (also at the Science University but independent of it. Don't ask) which is for the brightest students, preparing them for high faluting "grandes écoles".

As a freelance translator, my teaching is done as "vacations", a very specific (and specifically very shitty) type of contract that basically means you have to do what classes you're told, when you're told and every hour you don't teach isn't paid (including public holidays, illness...). If they need to get rid of staff for any reason, the "vacataires" are, of course, the first to go. There is also a maximum number of hours you can teach, namely 196, all universities together, for the academic year as a whole.

Another joy of these "vacations" is that you only get paid twice a year: the first semester (September to December) gets paid at the end of March, the second (teaching from January to May, then exams and orals and bla bla bla on and off till July) at the end of July.

This year (as in 2010-2011), in the first semester I taught 44 hours at the Arts University, 20 at Polytech and 54 at the Science University. The first two were paid at the end of March as planned. Still nothing from Science, and I learned today, after a snark-fest on the phone with a university administrator who has a job for life, gets paid for 13 months in every calendar year and can retire at 55, that I won't actually be paid till the end of July.

In the second semester, I taught 76 hours at the Science University. And the same administrator informed me that "because they have a lot of dossiers to deal with", they won't be paid till the end of October.

I guess you could probably say that right now I am beyond furious. Livid, even. The sums involved probably seem derisory to most people (all 196 hours taught probably comes to about 7,000 € or perhaps a little more), but I count on that money. I planned to use it to pay off debts, take the girls away for a few days at least, whatever. Now, instead, the debts will increase and we'll be staying home all summer.

I work stupid hours, but I work every day. Every. single. day. That includes Saturdays, Sundays and public holidays. I don't necessarily work huge numbers of hours every day, but still. Every. single. day. I haven't taken a whole day off since Christmas Day. And now I know I'm going to be here all damn summer.

I'm angry, and disappointed and oh, so tired.

You have to wonder when the fuck life is going to give me a goddamn break...

Monopolised

2011-06-09T00:36:00.000+02:00

When I was a kid, I looooooved board games. I'm not sure why. Maybe I really did love that throwing dice/moving counters stuff. Or maybe (more likely) I just enjoyed enjoying something I knew my mother despised. The only board games my mother would play willingly were Scrabble (which is yawntastic when you're a kid playing the adult version knowing your wordophile mother is going to win every.damn.time) and - inexplicably - Snakes and Ladders. Seriously, is there any board game more dull that that one?

My obsession was with Monopoly. It's a board game, my mother loathed it and it takes ages to play. I fantasised about it, dreamed of it, yearned for it. Occasionally, my father (when he was home and not exhausted) and I would gang up on my mother and force her into playing, sometimes it was just my father and me. But it was always rare, so I loved it.

Fast forward too-many-years-to-count. Here at home, the girls and I have TWO Monopoly sets - my original one (original as in it's London and it's the one I had as a child, in fabulous condition because it was hardly ever used) and my ex's one from his childhood (so it's of Paris, and in French Francs and has the Champs-Elysées card missing). Every so often the girls will beg me to play it.

But do you know what? While I really don't think I'm particularly like my mother at all, I have to say I'm with her on this: Monopoly sucks the life out of you. It wears you down till you can barely think, barely function, and eats up so many hours of a day that you get nothing done at all. Especially when your 7-year-old is the Bank and takes about 5 minutes to give change for every transaction (and confuses the 100s with the 1000s pretty much every time).

As you can probably guess, yesterday was that French favourite: no-school-Wednesday. And, whilst this may well be the south of France, you wouldn't fucking know it: grey skies, cool wind, threatening rain for a week now. I couldn't think of anywhere to go with the girls that wouldn't cost me their inheritance (what inheritance?), so we stayed in. This morning they watched "Rocky and Bullwinkle" (is it really so very wrong of me - or a sign of brain disintegration perhaps? - that I find this film hilarious?) and this afternoon it was either take them to the swimming pool (which I hate even more than Monopoly - I swim like a brick, loathe getting water on my face, feel claustrophobic in those horrid swimcaps you have to wear and get a headache from the noise levels) or play Monopoly.

We played Monopoly.

To be honest, I couldn't even tell you who won. I'm guessing C, as she seemed to have the most money left despite having bought shitloads of streets. We didn't declare a winner, we just stopped playing when I couldn't feel my arse any more (sitting on a parquet floor for hours is hell) and L was getting to fidgety. They seemed to enjoy it, despite the squabbling and painful money calculating procedures. I wanted to poke my eyes out with a fork.

And of course I got nothing of any significance done - Rocky and Bullwinkle sucked me in this morning, Monopoly sucked the life out of me this afternoon.

I suppose I should consider it time well spent, quality time with the girls, doing stuff together, or what have you. But Lord Almighty, why does it always have to be Monopoly?

Useful

2011-06-08T03:07:00.000+02:00

If not exactly productive (a two-page text and a quotation - and that's it), I did at least get some stuff done today. Let's try and make it seem like I did A LOT, shall we?

1. I finally activated my personal account credit card. Yeah!
2. I "did" the shopping (by which I mean I ordered all my food shopping for the next two weeks via internet last night and had it delivered this morning - paid for with the aforementioned activated credit card).
3. I put the shopping away.
4. I cut up hundreds of tickets for the school fête all afternoon (I'm going to pretend that this is what killed my productivity, but I know I'm fooling no one).
5. I translated a two-page text.
6. I found someone for the text into French, got it sorted, did the quotation for the client, received the translation back and sent both text and quotation to the end client (sounds impressive, huh?).
7. I texted two mothers from school confirming C's presence at a birthday party to one, and L's at another.
8. I did some boring admin stuff for one of my students (it involved printing out a couple of forms, filling them in, scanning them and sending them back. We're talking INTENSE WORK, here).

Gosh, that looks good, right? There are 8 things on that list!

Of course, what you can't see is my "to do" notebook with about 40 other things (I'm not kidding) still to do. But baby steps, baby steps as they say.

So, yeah. I feel like I was kind of useful today. Let's just pretend the uncomfortable and disturbing phonecall with D never happened, shall we?

Procrastination

2011-06-07T01:10:00.000+02:00

I really do believe I could be an Olympic champion if there were a procrastination race (contest?). I have a million small, simple things to do, yet I don't do them. To be honest, most of the time I have no idea where the time goes...

An example. Both my credit cards (one private account, one professional account) needed to be renewed recently. One became invalid on 01 May, the other on 01 June. For the private account (invalid as of 01 May), I received my new card by post at home some time towards the end of April. It can only be used if it is first "activated" by withdrawing money from a cash machine. For the professional account (invalid as of 01 June), I seriously have no recollection. I THINK I received it by mail too, but can't be sure, and sure as hell can't find it. Perhaps I just got a note saying that my new card is now available from my branch and that I need to go and pick it up. Who knows?

As I'm sure you've guessed, I still haven't even activated my private account card (even though I've had almost 6 weeks to do it). And that, in turn, means I can't use my credit cards at all.

Now, I'm going to be forced to take action because we have nothing to eat and I had to order my shopping last night. It's coming tomorrow (today) between 11 and 12 am, and the only means of payment is, of course, credit card. I know it's stupid, but I just can't seem to help myself.

Another example. I'm broke (nothing new there) yet can't get my arse in gear and actually get my invoices done, or phone the idiots at the university who still haven't even paid my classes from the first semester (September to December). And we all know how much I need the money...

I don't know what's wrong with me, I don't know how I manage to be so ridiculously behind, so stupidly late in bed, so damn fucking exhausted all the time - without actually seeming to get much of anything at all done.

The list of shit to do on my list is insane. The end of the school year is always crazy, and this one is crashing towards me like an out of control Formula 1 car. There are parties and birthdays and stuff to do for the school fête, there are holidays to organise, work, invoices, accounts, debts to pay off...

I'm totally at the end of my rope, can't be arsed to do anything at all (I've even got a translation to do into French and haven't done anything about finding someone to do it - and it's due in on Wednesday morning), just want to sink into bed and slip quietly into my fantasy life where all is how I want it, where I'm beautiful and slim and sexy and loved.

I try and motivate myself, every day I say, "OK, today you'll do this and this and this". I'm even pretty realistic, making sure I don't set myself unassailable targets. Yet that damn list just gets longer every day...

2011 World Procrastination Champion: Magic27!

4.39

2011-06-06T04:51:00.000+02:00

I can't believe (or rather yes, I can but hate to) that it's once again 4.39 am and I'm still up, writing this crap. Even my cat is now completely out of phase with reality - he's miaowing for his breakfast (or possibly another midnight snack - cat likes to eat).

It all started with a quick look at my Facebook page. And there, there was a message from a friend (dare I call her that? We've never actually met, but I feel we could be friends, we exchange messages. Is that friendship in this modern world?) asking how, living in France, you can watch American stuff via the internet. I was hooked: I've been trying to do this for months, without success: streaming doesn't work (you need to be in the US), sites claiming to do this don't work...

One of the answers gave a link to another site, one I hadn't heard of and thus hadn't tried. My curiosity was piqued. I have no self-discipline. I clicked the link.

After downloading the odd doodad or two, I found myself stunningly able to watch episodes of Glee, directly on the computer, for free (not downloaded, you have to pay for that).

As I said, I have no self-discipline. So of course I watched the first 3 episodes in season 2, one after the other (with a frustrating - and so far inexplicable - technical hitch between 2 and 3, making me "waste" about half an hour).

Then, just as I was about to shut up "shop" (ha!) for the night, I decided to check my e-mails. And lo and behold! A message from a student reminding me that I'd promised her her work back by 6 June. Had I corrected her work? Hell, I hadn't even downloaded it...

So I had to do that (luckily, she's a pretty good student so it didn't take long). And it reminded me that I'd promised another student a text to translate either today (Sunday) or tomorrow. And of course I didn't have one ready, so I had to do that too. And send it.

Which is why it is now 4.47 am and I am only just finished for the "day". And I have to be up again in less than 3 hours.

I have a feeling that tomorrow (today) is going to be another great day.

I also have to try and stop starting sentences with "and" - Mrs Sharrock, a wonderful English teacher I had back in secondary school (she used to sneak out of class on the pretext of fetching something so she could smoke a cigarette... unsurprisingly, she died of lung cancer years ago. But she was a great teacher and I learned a lot from her) would kill me...

Washout

2011-06-05T00:28:00.000+02:00

I have rarely been so glad to have had nothing planned at all for this 5-day weekend... The weather has been unbelievably craptastic, with Wednesday kind of grey and cold and windy and threatening rain, Thursday grey and cold and windy and actually raining, Friday grey and cold and windy and sometimes raining (can you see a pattern emerging here?) and yesterday - Saturday duh - grey and cold, with a mammoth thunderstorm ALL MORNING (and the torrential rain that goes with that) plus ordinary rain most of the afternoon, then back to grey and cold and windy and threatening rain.

People, this is the SOUTH OF FRANCE and it is JUNE. It has been hot in England and Paris, it's hot on the east coast of the US, it's probably hot in fucking Lapland... but not here.

I was so sure that the good weather season had arrived - we'd had a fair stretch of hot, sunny days. But no. Back to crap.

So it's only fitting that I've got fuck all done this weekend and have felt down in the dumps and miserable. It might be because I've been stupid, staying up till dawn watching Mad Men DVDs and reading FaceBook and Twitter; it might be because I'm lazy; it might be because I played Lego games with the girls (though it would be pretty mean-spirited of me to blame that as that hardly took up much time at all).

But no. I'm not blaming it on any of those things. I'm British, this is my birthright: I'm blaming it on the weather.

My favourite place

2011-06-04T01:15:00.000+02:00

I haven't exactly travelled extensively in my life. I've visited a fair number of European countries (some several times and different parts) and I've been to the US once - a fabulous week in NYC in April 2001.

I moved around (within Britain) a lot as a child, moving roughly every 12 to 18 months in the first 10 years of my life, and have never had a problem with the idea of moving (though the fuck-what-a-hassle factor is quite high now).

I've had wonderful times in Salamanca, Rome, Florence, Sienna, Lake Como, Amsterdam, NYC, London, Edinburgh, St Andrews, Lisbon, Zürich and more.

But you know what? Do you know where my favourite place is? The place that makes me smile, without fail, every time I go there? The one place where I know, for a fact, that my life is EXACTLY how I want it to be? Do you?

No?

Asleep, in my bed (much as I love "my" bed, though, it doesn't actually have to be my actual bed, it can just as easily be the-bed-allocated-to-me on a given occasion). THAT, without a doubt, is my favourite place in the whole world.

Am I pathetic or what?!

Plans

2011-06-03T02:23:00.000+02:00

I didn't exactly have "plans" for today, but I did promise the girls yesterday that we would "do something" together. I didn't really believe that the weather would still be crap (yesterday was kind of grey and sort of half-hearted not-rain), so had vague plans to hit the Domaine de Méric, a beautiful park near the centre of Montpellier.

Méric is the former home of the painter Frédéric Bazille and is truly delightful. It covers a hilly area, so at the top level there's a "wild" prairie, most likely in full bloom right now (cornflowers, poppies, cow parsley...), then a series of small grassy areas and an orchard, then, down in a hollow, a play area for kids and woodland, leading down to a riverside walk. Lovely at this time of year.

So of course it has been not only cold (which would have been scandalous enough, but manageable) but WET all. fucking. day. So that plan was out the window.

L. wanted to go to Altissimo, an indoor "rock climbing" place. It's expensive, particularly as the girls have generally had enough after an hour, but they do enjoy it so I sort of said OK.

Of course, we weren't the only ones to think of this and the place was PACKED. So C. suggested a game of bowling. I was vaguely up for that, but it was even more crowded, with a looooooong queue and a waiting time estimated at "about 45 minutes". No way.

So we ended up at Acrochats, God help me. We had to queue there, too, and it's probably the most expensive of the three, and certainly the most hideous for me. It's basically just a huge indoor play gym thing (like the ones at McDonald's, only much, much bigger), but it's in a massive, cavern-like room that multiplies the sound level a billion times. It's unspeakably hot, the kids get hyper, all types of drink etc. are wildly over-priced and, as an adult on my own, I was virtually comatose with boredom.

So much for our "doing something together". Huh.

The girls then begged to have dinner out too (all these places are in a part of the city called Odysseum, which is an out-of-centre shopping-eating-entertainment place, all open air and accessible by tram), so, as I'm a cheapskate and Acrochats almost bankrupted me, we went to Subway. Splendid.

My head was throbbing from the Acrochats atrocity, and I find Subway to be singularly unspectacular (doughy bread, stingy on the chicken...), but the girls love it, so at least they had a fun afternoon.

The main problem was that the whole thing put me in a bad mood and I spent a fair amount of the rest of the evening feeling annoyed with them that they wouldn't do as they were told (pick up their clothes, go get in the shower, brush teeth, switch the Glee DVD off, go to bed...). I wanted today to be a fun day, just the three of us, and instead I spent the whole afternoon sitting on my own with nothing to do and going almost insane from all those kids screaming.

I know I'm being grouchy and unreasonable - the girls had a lot of fun and that should probably be enough on a day out with kids. But I don't often take the girls places, I don't often get to do "fun" stuff and this was beyond disappointing for me. I should have gone with my instinct and gone to the Musée Fabre - they would have been less enthusiastic at the beginning, but we always have a good time there. And it's quiet. And we could have gone out for supper somewhere reasonably priced (but not Subway). *sigh*

Lesson learned, I guess.

Theme

2011-06-02T06:08:00.001+02:00

The theme of this month's NaBloPoMo is "Fan" (as you can see on the button to the left of this). I used to think I was a fan of certain things and that I remain loyal to them, but I'm beginning to think that's not actually the case... In fact, I'd say I'm more obsessive-compulsive than loyal.

I mean yes, there are things I was a fan of in the past and that I still like now (lots of things, in fact) but what I find more striking (and possibly more worrying) is that the things I REALLY like are more flash-in-the-pan. For example, I developed an obsession a few weeks ago about the TV series "Friends". And when I say "obsession", I really mean it. I bought myself - very cheap - the box set of ALL TEN SERIES and watched them, compulsively. I watched as many as 10 or 12 episodes in a row, non-stop, going to bed at dawn, totally bug-eyed, and then spending the next day exhausted yet desperate to keep going. But then, once I'd watched the last episode ever (and sobbed at the end), I put the DVDs away and haven't looked at them since.

Instead, I've turned my attention to Mad Men. There are only 4 seasons, but I've watched almost 3 and a half in just a few days. I've watched 4 episodes today (and why yes, it would be 6 am - thank God it's a public holiday today and there's no school to make me get up at 7.30). I have 8 or 9 episodes left. I'm obsessed about the show, even dreaming about the characters. But I know that once I've watched the last episode of season 4, I'll stop (until season 5 comes out on DVD of course, but that might be a while away).

The same thing happens with CDs, books, even food.

I don't have the "classic" OCD - I'm most definitely not obsessively clean (ha! ha! ha!), but these "bouts" really do take on obsessive status. I'm not sure what happens, nor what pleasure I get from it, but I just can't control myself. I tell you, I'm fighting the urge not to break out disc 2 in the season 4 DVD...

Obviously, as obsessions go, this is fairly harmless (apart from the not sleeping part, of course). I don't drink (much - maybe a bottle of wine a YEAR), I don't smoke at all, I don't do any kind of drug. But this type of behaviour still concerns me.

I'm feeling unspeakably fragile right now - totally adrift, without direction, struggling to keep my head out of water and make sure my daughters get the best I can give them. And I have a feeling these obsessions are the only form of stability I can find. They're real, practical, measurable.

They keep me, if not on, then at least in view of dry land.

So I accept them for now. Because I need all the stability I can get my hands on right now.

New month

2011-06-01T23:57:00.000+02:00

A new month, supposedly a new beginning, but this really is all starting to feel like the end.

I'm seriously starting to not care about my work (which will eventually all blow up in my face, I suspect) and it probably won't be long till I make a gaffe of some kind, like forgetting a translation to be done, or not turning up for an exam or something.

But right now I don't care. I'm floating, drifting, drowning.

My life isn't exactly flashing before my eyes, but my dreams are, my fantasies are.

And I'm yearning for some time away, alone with my girls, time to enjoy being with them. But I suspect it won't be possible this year as everything is too expensive.

I watch "Mad Men" and feel like bitch-slapping Betty Draper - she throws away so much, she hurts those children so much, and all for what? A dull, bourgeois life... Yeah, OK, maybe that's what she wanted, but the passion isn't the same. And boy, would I love some passion right now...

But I remain adrift, distraught at the idea that this is probably as close as I'll get all summer to being at the sea...

Mother

2011-05-29T23:31:00.000+02:00

Today was Mothers' Day here in France, and I pretty much screwed up. Damn you, Don Draper, and those sexy, manly shoulders and brooding stare...

Yeah, I stayed up waaaaay too late last night, meaning I spent all of today exhausted. I got up late (but before the girls got home all the same), spent far too long making lunch, worked during the afternoon and then napped till supper time. No nice walk into town for an icecream (my original plan), not even a trip to the botanical gardens...

But I received beautiful things from my little girls - made with love. A hand-painted mug (bought at IKEA apparently! How appropriate) and wonderful card from C, a little secrets box and poem and handmade card from L. They also, with D, bought a plant at the Parents' Association plant sale on Friday. It was wonderfully touching and moving. I love these two little girls so much!

I often think of my own mother. I don't miss her (she died in August 2003 after many years of early-onset dementia, and the last 2 or 3 were horrendous: she was completely dependent on my father, had no idea who she was, where she was, who anyone else was...) because we were never really very close. She just wasn't the touchy-feely-cuddly type, and she was certainly never my confidente. But I do miss the mother I never had. I'm so envious of all these people who have a strong relationship with their mother. I miss seeing what kind of grandmother she would have been (I think she'd have been a better grandmother than mother, to be honest). I miss that mythical mother I dreamed of. Don't get me wrong - she loved me, I loved her, our relationship was pretty good. But she had no idea who I was, she hated letting me grow up (and tried desperately to keep me a child. I blame her for my social ineptness - she never taught me anything "grown up", like how to put on make-up, how to talk to boys. She never even gave me "the talk", I had to find out by myself), she resented me for having the life she thought she should have had (a university education) and for spoiling the life she did have (a high-powered personal assistant in a large petrochemicals firm near London, earning good money and having fun in the Swinging Sixties). I'm pretty sure she didn't actually want children at all - my parents were married for 13 years before I was born, and I'm an only child...

No, my mother had no idea what I was thinking, what my dreams were, who I was.

I have no idea what kind of relationship we would have had now if she hadn't developed dementia. I know I would never have wanted her present for the birth of the girls (as I said, no touchy-feely stuff from her), but having her around in the weeks or months that followed might have been nice.

I don't know, it's so hard to say. She was my mother, and she was the way she was. I DO miss her, in some ways, but given how she spent the last few years of her life, I considered her death to be a blessed relief to be honest. She was surviving, technically alive, but for what? She had no life to speak of... I miss some of the fun times we had together (we did have fun together, as long as we remained on neutral ground and never broke down and talked - oh, the horror! - of our feelings and emotions), I miss lots of things about her. But mostly, as I said already, I miss the mother I wish I had had.

In these last few months, when life has been so hard, my strength has come solely from my desire to always do the best I can for my sweet girls. Their love for me, and mine for them, are what keep me sane. I just hope and pray that the relationship I have with them will be better than the one I had with my own mother. I want to be part of their lives, I want to be the person they can talk to, turn to when they need advice or sympathy or just someone who will listen.

Today was Mothers' Day here in France and yes, I screwed up. But the essential was there: my girls and I spent time together, and they love me and I love them. Together, the three of us are strong, united and hopeful. Our future - THEIR future - will be better because of the love we have for each other today.

Done!

2011-05-29T02:03:00.000+02:00

So I went. It was a bit of a marathon - I had to trek out to one birthday party by bus to drop of L, then race back with C in tow to drop her off at another one (damn all these spring babies!), but managed to get myself in the tramway by 3.30. I didn't buy all the stuff on my list (I didn't have time to hunt everything down, plus I'm pretty sure I couldn't have carried more) but I did get a lovely standard lamp and shade, a table lamp and shade (same lamps, different shades), some new cutlery, some sun lotion, a pair of orange slippers and all the light bulbs I needed. Oh, and I bought a box of "IKEA Family" plasters because some of them have L's beloved yellow-with-red-spots camel on.

It was tiring - exhausting, even, and I almost missed my stop on the way home because I was dozing in the tram - but oh! sooooo worth it! The lights are in place and look so much better than the halogen thing. I'm very pleased with the result. It's the little things, dontcha know.

Of course, I got no work done today AT ALL. This was partly because of the hectic afternoon, but also because I didn't have time this morning and then spent all evening glued to Mad Men Season 3 on DVD. It arrived today and I'm gluttonously stuffing episodes down as if there's no tomorrow...

And the girls aren't here tonight. This is quite pleasant - I can watch my DVD without interruption - but I'm pissed off about tomorrow. It's Mothers' Day here tomorrow, and my girls won't be home till lunchtime (if then). D wanted to cancel their night with him so I could "spend time with them in the morning, and then he'd take them in the afternoon" but that would have been WORSE, except of course he can't see that: I'd have virtually been alone all day (he's coming at 10 to pick them up for their Sunday School stuff, so I'd have spent about 30 minutes in the morning hustling them along to get ready, and that's it). At least this way, they should be here for lunch at least... But still. It's Mothers' Day and I want to spend it with my girls. That's normal, no? I know I'll be stupidly reasonable and let him spend Fathers' Day with them...

But enough bitching. Today has been OK, not bad at all even. The weather is glorious, my new lights make me ridiculously happy (shows how empty my life is, no?), I saw very little of D (always a plus) and was out and about this afternoon for the first time in God knows when. It was a "normal" Saturday!

The only problem with that, of course, is that IKEA is full of lots of other people having a "normal" Saturday, by which I mainly mean couples, measuring, comparing, discussing how to make "their" home nicer. I felt like a bit of a loser wandering around by myself (almost no one seems to go there alone, particularly on a Saturday). But I love IKEA enough for that to not get me down (too much).

OK, it's time to turn off my lovely new lights and maybe actually go to bed before 2 am for once...

Happy Mothers' Day for those celebrating it today!

The urge

2011-05-28T04:21:00.000+02:00

It's true, I am, indeed, starting to feel "the urge". Not for what you might think (though a little of THAT would be quite nice too, I must say...), no, not at all...

Tomorrow is a birthday party extravaganza with C being invited to one party and L to another. I have to deliver each girl to each party (luckily they have a 30 minute start time difference) and then... and then... I'm free till C's 6 pm pick-up time. Did you hear that? Yes, I'm FREE...

This, of course, can only mean ONE THING.

And, if I add in that the little girl hosting the party C's going to is Swedish, you might be able to figure out what my "urge" is...

Yup.

People, I feel that a trip to IKEA is looming large. I have my sights set on a standard lamp (base + shade) and matching table lamp to replace the hideous halogen thing D bought (that I've always loathed and that now seems to no longer be working), plus a parasol and base for the balcony and maybe a few other extraneous bits and pieces. I'm excited as hell, and utterly horrified at how pathetic my life has become.

Who'm I kidding? Even before "last year", I got horribly excited about trips to IKEA - there's nothing new there.

So, by about 3.30 I should be on my way. I don't have long, but I can be quick. Seriously, I can. I'm pretty good when it comes to making snap decisions about spending money I don't really have...

The flat is a tip, a total and utter tip, but I have PLANS, people. PLANS. I'm going to pack up all D's stuff (because of course there's still a shitload of his stuff here) and either get him to take it away, or at least get it down into the cellar. This is a huge task in itself because the cellar has been so badly filled (by D) that it's almost impossible to get anything more in, even though there's actually a ton of space.

But let's imagine that I manage. Then I can fill up the newly-vacated drawer and shelf space, thus liberating the floor from the mountains of crap currently to be found there. I have to put doors on the kitchen cabinets, buy a worktop, put up curtains... I'm excited at the prospect of getting this place smart and nice to live in. Then I can invite people round without dying of shame and embarrassment...

And it all starts tomorrow, with my beloved IKEA...

Summer

2011-05-24T01:51:00.000+02:00

Technically, it's still spring. But it already feels like summer here. The air is hot during the day, warm at night. The leaves on the trees, a bright, spring green just a few weeks ago, already have that tired look that summer in the south of France brings.

"Things" are happening, too: end-of-year shows are being prepared, and the first wave hits this week: two "concerts" for the songs learned at school this year, plus two "circus shows" to mark the end of the year. The last circus classes will be next week. The school end-of-year extravaganza will be held on 17 June. School ends on 1 July.

The girls are starting to get excited about the long holidays - 9 weeks! This year feels "finished" for them, their sights now set on CM2 and CE1: which teacher will they have? Will they be with their friends?

For me, the seasons barely change. Yes, I enjoy the warmer weather, no doubt about that. But it makes me more self-conscious (if that's possible) about my body, my skin, my age. One advantage of not being involved in beach trips any more is that at least I avoid the dreaded swimsuit trauma most of the time (I think I was at the beach here 3 times last summer? Maybe? And twice in Spain. Quite a feat for someone living just 10 km from the Mediterranean...). Summer also means memories of the past - as a real family, a family of four, we had fun in the summer months. The beach, the lake, picnics, barbecues. Journeys to the Alps, the Pyrenees, Italy, the Basque country. Late nights at funfairs... All finished now.

Summer is time. Lots and lots of time. And not enough time. The girls need activities, entertainment. I need to work. But I also need to get away, with my girls, somewhere-that-is-not-here. For now, nothing's planned, everything I look at is too expensive. But oh, how I want to get away! Just a week would be enough - I haven't taken any holiday so far this year and I'm worn out, worn down. I would love a week in a hotel, just the three of us. Visiting things, eating out, eating icecreams, being just maman, not having to work. I don't know if it's going to be possible and I see these summer weeks stretching before me.

Friends are coming to visit, and I'm looking forward to that so much! I hope to find a circus course for the girls to do in late August (something to occupy them in those final days when they start yearning for school and friends again). I'm guessing D will take them to his mother's place for a week too. But the rest of the time, I don't know.

I have felt more positive lately, yet tonight, sitting here at my desk, I feel like I'm adrift, floating on a wave so far out to sea, so far from anything that might anchor me down, that I'll never see firm land again. I get through the days, I get through the nights, but drifting, drifting, drifting.

There was a party this weekend, Sunday morning to be exact. For my sweet little L and her friend G, both of whom turned 7 within a week of each other. It was great to organise a party with someone else; a workload shared is a workload shared after all. The parents are great, we had a good time, the party was a success. There were 18 kids, they all had fun. It was a beautiful, hot, sunny day. I felt happy, relaxed, at ease. Till D showed up (as he'd said he would). He didn't stay long, but his presence set me adrift again. I drifted, unable to put down an anchor and stay on dry land. It's always the same now. Being in the same room as him disturbs me more than ever. And with the summer, meaning trips to the beach, he'll be here every day.

I still find it hard to believe I'm living this life. How did I get here? Where did I go wrong? Why did this happen? Is there anything I could have done to change the outcome?

This will be my second summer alone. I'm in a better place than last year, for sure, but I still haven't found my best place. I'm still adrift. And, without the rhythm of school days to guide me, the summer will be another test of my ability to keep control, to keep on top of things.

It's still technically spring, but in my heart it's summer already. I can feel control slipping away, the pull of the great ocean is my siren song and soon I will be truly adrift.

2011-05-18T01:48:00.001+02:00

Happy Birthday to Me!

2011-05-18T01:43:00.000+02:00

It is now, technically (here in France, anyway) my birthday. I am 42 years old. This is a number that actually doesn't scare me - in fact, it makes me think of Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (a book that I read many, many times as a teenager) in which we learn (thanks to the computer Deep Thought and it's 7.5 million years of cogitation) that the Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe and Everything is 42. Unfortunately, the Question itself has been lost (God, I loved this book...)...

There was also, once, a lifetime ago, a British band called Level 42 (named after the aforementioned Answer), and they were the very first band I ever saw play live. Check them out (this was one of their biggest hits). How's that for useless information?

So, yeah. Turning 42 just doesn't have the negative feel to it that, say, turning 40 had. Except of course that it means I'm another year older.

And still single.

And still broke.

And still staying up ridiculously late every night and fucking up my days as a result.

As for today, well, the "plans" I had have mainly gone down the toilet: I was going to do a roast chicken for lunch (a popular - and rare - occurrence chez Magic) and then the girls were going to make a cake for me, all by themselves. Of course, my oven broke irredeemably on Sunday night, so I bought a new one on line and paid a small fortune for a rush-job delivery, promised today (17th) before 1 pm.

It didn't come.

And the asshole delivery guy put "doesn't live at this address" as the reason. Which is, of course, total and utter crap. I was here till 2.30 pm and they didn't come. I phoned up the place I bought the oven from, complained long and loud, and have been promised it'll come tomorrow. But that's too late - I'll be out quite a bit of the day (it's a WEDNESDAY, which means no-school-and-lots-of-activities for the girls) so you can bet it'll come when we're not home. And even if it comes when we ARE here, there'll be no time for roasting chickens or baking cakes. So that'll be my 2nd birthday in a row with no cake (that makes me sound so childish, I know. But come on. It's my BIRTHDAY. I want a CAKE. I was even willing to make one myself, but now can't. Sniffle).

My new "plan" is to go out for lunch, but we don't have much time, what with one activity finishing at 11, then homework, and the next starting at 2, but it should be possible.

At least this year I know the girls haven't forgotten, despite their attempts at subterfuge with D this evening.

I'm pretty sure this birthday will be better than last year's. I'm certainly in a better place, personally. I'm stronger, more confident, more resilient, more at peace. That doesn't mean life is good, exactly, and I do remain more lonely than I could ever imagine possible, but I'm starting to come back to life a little.

Happy Birthday to Me!

Les mouches des temps

2011-05-17T00:34:00.000+02:00

Wow. It's already the middle of May... I'm struggling to come to terms with the idea that in just a few hours (on Wednesday, in fact), I will be turning 42. My God that sounds old. Yet it's strange, I don't necessarily FEEL particularly old (though Lord knows I look it).

I'm hoping my birthday will be a little less craptastic than last year. I mean, I know it's not going to be anything wild, but hopefully it won't leave me a jibbering wreck of misery, sobbing silently into my pillow so that my Dad could remain in blissful ignorance of my nightmare life... At least this year, the girls are aware of my upcoming birthday and even know what day it is, so that's a start. And, if my new worktop oven arrives tomorrow as it's supposed to, then I might even get a cake and candles this year...

With regards to presents, I've mainly bought myself stuff. First, I bought the aforementioned oven, but that's not exactly the gift that's going to make my eyes shine. It's more that the old one just died and I can't cope for long without an oven.

More excitingly (for me, anyway), I bought myself a small, white, metal table and two matching stools for the balcony (all very cheap from IKEA), so the girls and I can sit outside and have meals over the summer; I have also bought (but not yet received, oh, the suspense is killing me!) three potentially lovely things from Cath Kidston:

First of all, this adorable dress:

Yes, it's most likely the most expensive single item of clothing I've ever bought, but it looks adorable to me and I'm hoping it will succeed where so many other clothes have failed and make ME look adorable too.

Then I bought enough of this material to make a tablecloth and matching napkins for my new balcony table:

And, finally, I bought myself this stationery box set too, because I am weak and frivolous when it comes to a) Cath Kidston stuff b) Amazon and c) CK bargains on Amazon.

So, all in all, a pretty good set of presents. I'm very pleased! After that, I'm not bothered if I don't get any more gifts at all - even though I received two packages, one from my Dad and the other from one of my best friends, M, this morning. This birthday already feels better than last year's!

I've also been trying to get my act together: my Dad installed the wall lights that have been languishing in a cupboard for almost 2 years (D was a seriously unenthusiastic DIY guy), I installed the TV box thingamajig without a hitch, and I'm intending to get to work on clearing this place of D's stuff as soon as I have a minute to breathe. I think I'll feel better when all his stuff has gone, once and for all - clothes, books, papers, CDs, DVDs, all kinds of stuff. I want it all gone; that way, there'll be more space for tidying up the mess that has accumulated.

Being 41 wasn't a particularly happy time for me - one of the worst years of my life, to be honest - so I have hopes for 42. I'm trying not to be too optimistic (that's hardly in my nature now, is it?), but just a little, tiny bit hopeful.

7

2011-05-02T02:25:00.000+02:00

My baby girl turned 7 last Wednesday. Unlike many mothers (or so it seems at least), I have little or no nostalgia for the baby days. Don't get me wrong: I didn't hate them, no, I really didn't (well, not all the time, anyway). But I do, most definitely, prefer the NOT baby days. And 6 was pretty good on the whole, so I'm hoping 7 will be at least as good (especially as Lord knows the year my baby was 6 was a difficult year for all of us).

We had a fun day, mainly. My dad was here (he arrived the afternoon before) and there were presents (lots of lovely presents!), and a friend spent the morning with us, then she and her mother both had lunch with us, and we had L's favourite lunch (roast chicken, green beans and chips (oven chips, I refuse to deep fry anything), followed by strawberries and cream), then they spent the afternoon with D and his friend, came back home for supper and cake: a beautiful butterfly-shaped chocolate chip cake with lemon frosting. So yeah, it was a good day.

But for me it was a bittersweet day. Her birthday last year was really the signal of what was to come - D was still here, but brought the neighbours down for the cake part of the day because he couldn't bear to be here with me; he bought a birthday card just from him (and not from us - I was furious with him!) and it was clear that all was not well.

Today was 1st May, and this is actual anniversary of the day he left me, the day he bad-mouthed me to our friends and accused me of trying to kill him, the day he stormed away from all of us (me, the girls, our friends and their son) in the street saying he couldn't bear to be anywhere near me, the day he fucked up my life for good.

At that time, I desperately wanted him to come back, for us to go back to "normal" (ha!). At the time I still had feelings for him, a need for him. Now, after a year of real struggling, a year that has been hard beyond belief, my feelings have changed completely. I wouldn't "take him back" now if he paid me. Now, it's I that can't bear to be in the same room as him. I actively hate him, even, on occasion. And I certainly hate what he's done to me, my girls, our lives.

My life has changed in so many ways in the last year. Not all for the worse, I admit. I'm stronger than I was before, more in control of certain things, more independent. But definitely worse in more ways than I care to admit (I've never, never been so lonely in my entire life; I yearn for companionship; my financial status is just about out of control; and, while I certainly feel even closer to my sweet girls, at the same time there have never been so many arguments and tears as there have been this year). So yeah, my feelings for D have definitely done an about-face.

Days when I don't see him are better than the ones when I do (I nearly always have to speak to him on the phone, and that's bad enough. I'm uncomfortable in his presence, even on the phone).

Here's to hoping that my baby's 8th year will be a happier, more fulfilling, more peaceful, more serence year than her 7th. My little girls are strong, beautiful, bright and loving. I adore them to the ends of the moon and back. They are my life, my hopes, my dreams. They are my world. They deserve better than the crap year they've just had, and I'm doing my best, night and day, to ensure that they get it.

Happy Birthday, sweet L.

Cracked

2011-04-25T22:44:00.000+02:00

I know this could be woefully premature, but do I dare say that lately (as in, in the last few days) things have been... better? There has been laughter in this house, including my own and I don't remember the last time that happened...

Now, don't get me wrong. THINGS are still happening and screwing my life up. THINGS are bringing me down and causing tears when I'm alone (which happens quite a lot, actually, though possibly not much in the immediate future with my dad arriving TOMORROW (GAH) for 9 (NINE!) days) and I am, of course, still totally freaked out about money.

BUT. The girls and I have been fighting less, snuggling more (even though I feel like I see them less than ever), laughing more.

Easter has been pretty much OK, to be honest. OK, I didn't see them much: they spent all Saturday afternoon and evening either with friends (separately) or with D (together), not getting home till 10 pm, and then they spent last evening and night (all night) with D, till lunchtime today. But we had a lovely Easter Sunday lunch, in the morning they did an egg hunt in the house and then we went to the Jardin des Plantes yesterday afternoon and it was delightful.

The Jardin des Plantes really is my favourite place in Montpellier, without a doubt (OK, that and IKEA, but that's hardly "typical" of Montpellier...). There were flowers in blossom, frogs, turtles, fish, peace and quiet. It's a magical place, a haven of tranquillity.

This evening we played board games and managed to avoid any sore-loser-ness from anyone. Yes, they went to bed far too late again, but at least there was good humour for once...

L's birthday is getting closer and closer, and of course D is making things complicated: he's organising a party for her on Saturday with his friend M. I'm fine with that, there's no problem. But I've already told him I'll be doing a party in collaboration with one of L's friends who has her birthday a week later and that we'll be inviting school friends. So of course he, D, has invited 2 friends from school - and only 2. And he seems to be incapable of understanding how stupid that is, how awkward, how idiotic. I swear, étiquette and social graces just seem to pass him by...

But I'm really going to try and not let his dumb ass behaviour spoil L's day. Last year was pretty much hideous (obviously), and the day of the party even worse (he walked out THE DAY BEFORE. What a star! What a hero! Will I ever stop being angry about his insane behaviour? And no, I no longer care that he's probably reading this - I WANT him to know how fucking angry I am with him, how much he now bugs the shit out of me. NAH.), so I want this year to be fun, even for me if possible.

I'm still pretty much down in the dumps, but this is the first string of more than a couple of hours in which I've felt any kind of positive feelings since last year, so I'm taking that as a positive.

Happy Easter, everyone!

Slipping

2011-04-20T00:05:00.000+02:00

I can feel them slipping away, gradually, and it's breaking my heart. I feel like I almost never see my girls any more and, even though I know it's not exactly true and that C's trip to Paris is partly to blame, there is some truth in it.

C left last Monday (11/4) at 5.30 am. I picked her up at the station on Thursday at 7.30 pm, we had dinner at McDonald's and the girls were both in bed by 9.45. D took them to school the next morning, but I brought them home, though I had to take C to her circus class almost at once. And I didn't see her again till Sunday evening. D picked up L at 7.30 pm and I didn't see her again till Saturday afternoon, when we went to see "Winnie the Pooh" (though I have to confess I fell asleep halfway through and somewhat "lost the plot" so to speak). L was out all day Sunday too.

Yesterday (Monday), I had to invigilate an exam, so I asked D to pick the girls up from school, except he couldn't, so it was his friend, Magali. And she didn't bring them home till 8.30 pm, by which time the mushroom pie I'd prepared (ie cooked from frozen) was inedible - burnt on top and cold. I swear, it was like I never see my girls at all, and I was miserable last night, I can tell you!

Hopefully, I'll have some time with C on Wednesday afternoon, but it's difficult. I don't have any money, and there aren't many free things to do that still appeal to the girls now. I know it's classic for dads to be the "fun" parents, but when you're no longer a couple, the injustice of that is even more obvious. I get to do all the boring stuff - laundry, homework, checking school bags, making sure everything's ready, etc. As I don't drive (totally my own fault, I know, but a fact nevertheless) I can't easily take them anywhere and oh, I don't know, I just feel that they're both slipping out of my grasp.

These two little girls mean sooooo much to me, yet we never seem to do anything fun together any more... And that's why I'm hoping that I can find enough money to take them away this summer. Right now, it seems impossible to imagine, but I'm hoping that things will have started to change and that I'll manage to do it somehow.

I know they're growing up - even my littlest hobo will be 7 in just over two weeks - and that increasing distance is normal, but this is different. This is yet more horrible fallout from separating from D: when they're with him, that means they're not with me. It's not just that they're making their own friends, it's also that they're making friends through him, so there are whole areas of their lives where I have no idea what they're doing. Yet I'm still the one who has to prepare everything, organise sleepover bags, make sure everything comes home, remember about homework etc. I'm still the one who has to "manage". And it kills me.

I want them to grow up remembering me for things other than yelling and ordering them to do things. I don't want all their memories of me to be either screeching or crying (or often both). I try so hard, I have ideas and plans, yet I never seem to get round to doing anything. Or nothing right, anyway.

Being single sucks, being a single mother sucks, being so angry and frustrated sucks. My life sucks, except for those all-too-brief and all-too-rare moments of complicity with my sweet little girls. They - and their love - make it all bearable, and worthwhile. And if I lose that, I don't know what will become of me.

As you were

2011-04-14T02:29:00.000+02:00

I don't really have much inspiration tonight. It's late (2.20 am, I have to be up at 7.30 to take L to school...), I'm tired, I feel kind of sick (not sure why) and I just want to drift away to someplace else.

But this has been a strange week. On the one hand, C has been away since fuck-me-o'clock on Monday morning (I had to GET UP at 4.30 am to make her picnic, then get her up at 4.50 so she could leave with D at 5.30 for the station), on a school trip to Paris. She'll be home - exhausted beyond belief I should imagine - tomorrow evening at about 7 pm. They've done some wonderful things, and I know she'll have had a great time, but it really has been strange here without her. She suddenly seems so big these days, so "grown-up"...

On the other, in just under 2 weeks, my little L will be turning 7, whilst my daddy turns 80 today (14th) and my sweet cat Tom will be 14 on Friday. It's all a bit much to take in, to be honest. L can read pretty well now, she's gaining in independence, gaining in confidence, gaining in stroppiness too (WON'T GO TO SLEEP - Gaaaaaaahhhhh), but she's my littlest hobo and she'll be 7 in a fortnight. Blows my mind, actually.

At the same time, my dear daddy will be coming to visit at the end of the month, arriving just before L's birthday and staying till 5 May (which seems like a helluva long time to me - 9 nights on the sofa bed will kill my back). That means he'll also be here on the anniversary of that horrible, horrible day when D finally went totally insane and walked out, insulting me on the street, badmouthing me to our closest friends and ruining L's birthday party (for me, anyway) the next day. In some ways, it's good someone will be here because it means I won't be able to mope all day. On the other, it's a pain in the butt because - heh - I won't be able to mope all day.

Still.

That's all really, except that I'm back to listening to Train again - their more rock'n'roll first album this time though - because L has me all Glee-d out (she plays the one Glee CD we have INCESSANTLY) and, as usual, the lyrics speak to me: "they call me free, but I call me a fool...". Yeah. That sounds about right.

Obsession

2011-04-12T19:23:00.000+02:00

I'm starting to believe that I have an obsessive personality - probably not in a clinically definable way (at least I hope not), but there really are things that grab hold of me and take up my time...

My latest obsession is PostCrossing. The principle is simple: you sign up, you get sent the name and address of a random stranger somewhere in the world and you send them a postcard. As soon as your card has been received (and the ID code you must put on it entered on the site), your name and address get sent to someone and then you receive a card from a random stranger in turn. It sounds kind of pointless, I know, but seriously - I have already had such fun choosing pretty cards, writing a little message on them and sending them to "exotic" destinations (so far: 3 to the USA, 2 to Finland, 2 to Russian, 1 to the Netherlands and 1 to Australia), not to mention the excitement rush I get every time a new card arrives in my letter box: so far, I've received 6: 2 from Finland, 1 each from India, Germany, the USA and Russia).

I can't really explain why I enjoy it so much - but I do at least know I'm not alone in this (there are thousands of members according to the site). And I've already decided I'm going to have to pace myself - it could become a pretty expensive habit if I don't control myself. I'm going to try and limit myself to no more than 10 cards a month (which is already 10-15 € in total).

I'm guessing that I enjoy it for the same reason I enjoy Twitter and Facebook - it's all about connecting with people, getting out of the rut I'm in here at home. OK, so these people aren't friends (PostCrossing in particular, but Twitter too - even if there is more sustained contact), but it's contact, it's a little glimpse into the lives of others, and I love it.

Of course, I've always loved postcards (I have hundreds of them - every time I visit a country, a city, a museum, etc. I buy postcards), so I guess this PostCrossing thing was more or less made for me. But if you like getting mail, if you enjoy choosing pretty cards, if you get a thrill from "meeting" new people, it's a great hobby. Though probably not a great thing to put on your CV - it might come over as being a bit "lame" I guess!

Friends

2011-04-10T04:30:00.000+02:00

You have to understand that I'm not a big TV watcher. I changed service provider back in October, meaning I have a new "box" for the telephone, internet and TV - and I haven't even installed the TV part yet. So I haven't watched TV AT ALL since early October.

It's always been the same - or at least, since I first arrived in France anyway (which was a LOOOOOONG time ago, believe me). This might be because I find much of French TV to be utter crap (an odd blend of totally dated variety show type things, reality TV and endless detective series, mixed with 3 or 4-hour pretentious chit-chat shows with eggheads and philosophers and bla, bla, bla, meh). I don't watch much TV, is what I'm trying to say.

For a while, way back in the late 90s (like, 97, 98 or perhaps 98 and 99, I don't remember), D and I had cable TV, so we were able to watch certain TV shows actually in English. We watched Seinfeld, and Dream On, and we kind of got into the "Friends" thing. We "joined" the series half-way through (probably series 3 or 4 I should think). But when we stopped paying for cable, we stopped watching Friends, even though it was on French TV because OMG - it's sooooo not funny dubbed into French. Lame, lame, lame. Absolutely not the same. So there are a lot of episodes - whole series, in fact - that I've never seen.

So. Back to the point of this disjointed post that's been rumbling round my brain all day (and, apparently, half the night too because it's now after 4 am. AGAIN.). A couple of days ago, I got this sudden urge to start watching Friends. I bought seasons 1 and 2 (which I'd never seen) earlier this year and found them pretty funny. And I've been watching them for the second time in the last few days. I've just got to the part where Monica hooks up with Richard Burke-Tom Selleck (that's for those of you who are fans - for the rest, it's about half-way through season 2).

I couldn't figure out what exactly was making me watch these episodes so compulsively. They focus quite a bit on the Ross-Rachel saga, and they are the two characters I've always liked the least. So that's not the reason.

And then, this evening, it finally hit me. It's the theme song. That chirpy, brain-wormy theme song; not the chorus so much, as the verse:

"So no one told you life was gonna be this way; your job's a joke, you're broke, your love life's D.O.A. It's like you're always stuck in second gear - when it hasn't been your day, your week, your month or even your year..."

THAT GODDAM SONG IS MY FUCKING LIFE, people. OK, my job isn't a "joke", but the fact that I end up working ridiculous hours, every damn day of the year, and am still broke makes it pretty close to one (oh, plus the fact that there's no possible promotion and I'll never be able to afford to retire...).

These 6 characters are living the kind of life I should have lived when I was their age (but didn't because I was such a freak), and would like to live again (but can't because it's too late). I would love to start over, go back to when I first arrived in France and just do things totally differently. I would love to be young, and free and single-dating-falling in and out of love, instead of the pathetic creature I was back then, and the hopeless future old-maid I've become. I would love to hang out with friends, drink coffee, share meals together and have fun, like I used to back in university, but now can't. Don't get me wrong - there isn't one nanogram of regret concerning my beautiful little girls, I wouldn't change a thing about them, but the rest? Meh. Total waste of time.

I now feel like I'm living vicariously through the characters in Friends. Ross bugs the shit out of me, and Rachel has much the same effect (she's less annoying than he is, but still. Grrrr). Phoebe makes me laugh and Joey's cute, but the ones I like best - now and when I watched them on TV way back when - are still Monica and Chandler. They crack me up. I want to slip into their lives, become part of the Central Perk scene, BE SOMEONE ELSE.

My "real" life is such a fuck-up that these ridiculous fantasies are all that get me through. If I could just walk away from the shit storm blustering around me, believe me, I would. But I can't, and I won't. But I still feel like I'm being eaten up with worries and anger and frustration and loneliness. Lots of anger, actually.

Friends was hugely successful and I pretty much missed the boat on that one - I kind of know what happens, who ends up with whom etc., but I haven't seen the episodes yet. I will, though, I will. And I'll continue to live my life vicariously through them, trying to get through the real stuff the best I can. I'm not eloquent or good with words like Avitable, but I'm definitely feeling the same depression, the same funk. I know I'm strong, and I know I'll find a way through this, but right now, like him, I don't feel it. Till then, I'll watch Friends, and Mad Men and Glee, and get sucked into these alternative universes where I can feel, for just a short while, that I don't suck quite so much.

Books Part 2

2011-04-08T01:04:00.000+02:00

OK, enough of films (though I could bang on about films I've loved/hated all day, despite having rarely been in a cinema since my elder daughter was born in December 2001), and back to books.

One of my very, very favourite current, living authors (though admittedly there aren't many DEAD ones I like to be honest) is Jasper Fforde.

But where to start if you don't know his work? It sounds ghastly and pretentious and silly and, while it most definitely IS the last of those adjectives, it most vehemently ISN'T the first two. In a nutshell (if you've ever read through any of my previous posts, you'll know this "nutshell" idea isn't going to end well), his heroine is a detective called Thursday Next. She lives in a town in England - Swindon - in a sort of parallel 1980s - by parallel I mean that it's not science fiction (I hate science fiction apart from The Hitchhikers's Guide, strangely enough by a dead author, disproving my previous point) but that it's a 1980s Swindon that only partially existed. In Thursday's Swindon, people commonly have dodos as pets, the Crimean War is still raging, England and Wales are also at loggerheads, croquet is a national sport, etc.

Thursday works for Spec Ops 27, which is the literary detectives branch. She deals with bogus original manuscripts, etc. The main event in this book is Thursday's battle with the evil Acheron, who kidnaps Jane Eyre (I knew this was going to be difficult to describe). Forays inside the plot are necessary to save Jane and the national treasure that the book represents. This first book (The Eyre Affair) is hilarious and clever at the same time. There are so many details that catch your eye...

Subsequent adventures see Thursday have her husband's existence eradicated from everyone's memory, be employed by Jurisfiction (INSIDE book world - her mentor is Miss Havisham who is a great fan of motor car racing. You will learn all about how books are REALLY written (none of this "author" rubbish!) and meet a wealth of amazing, sometimes vaguely familiar, characters...) and oh, so much more (did you know that in Bookworld all the characters in Wuthering Heights are forced to go to anger management counselling, with sessions held in one of the rooms not mentioned in the novel? Or that Jurisfiction have a headquarters set up in the ballroom of Northanger Abbey?...).

I have loved every book in the series and can only recommend that you dig in... I would recommend that you read the books in order: it's hard enough as it is to keep track of who's who! I particularly liked Something Rotten, the 4th book in the series - in which, amongst other things, Hamlet is revealed to be a Mel Gibson fan and Ophelia mounts a coup to take over the play... but truly enjoyed them all and am eagerly awaiting my birthday (18 May if anyone's interested) when my dad has promised to buy me the newest one, One Of Our Thursdays Is Missing.

So go on, get out there and start reading Jasper Fforde!

By the way, he has also written other novels, though I've only read the two "Nursery Crimes" novels: The Big Over Easy (about Humpty Dumpty: did he fall or WAS HE PUSHED?) and The Fourth Bear, featuring a unique villain in the shape of the Gingerbread Man - "psychopath, sadist, convicted murderer and cake/biscuit". Both were good, and definitely amusing, but not as good as the Thursday Next series...

This must be the biggest nutshell in history...

Top Five Films

2011-04-05T23:44:00.000+02:00

I picked up this idea from I Like To Fish and just had to give it a go (you KNOW how much I like memes...), especially as Travis' choices were so normal - nothing pretentious or arthouse or (in my opinion) unwatchable... that's not to say I agree with his choices (none of his 5 are on my list), but they're almost all films I've seen and enjoyed enough, whereas the what I call pretentious stuff I can't even sit through...

Anyway, enough of that. On to my Top Five Films Ever (or at least so far).

5. Face Off. I'm absolutely not afraid to admit to having a "thing" about Nic Cage. Yeah, he's made some dud films, but I suspect I haven't seen most of them - I don't go much to the cinema, so I haven't seen any of his recent offerings and they are the ones I suspect of being the least good. But this one, oh, I loved it! Not only does it have Nic Cage, but also John Travolta (who was, as you'll see below, my first ever actor crush!). I loved the plot, however improbable it was, and just thought it was a great action film.

4. Stand By Me. I am most definitely not a Stephen King fan, so the fact that this is based on one of his short stories is quite unusual. But I just loved this film (and not just because River Phoenix was so damned cute in it). I've used it as a teaching aid (read: pretext to watch it), I find it unbelievably moving. The ending, when the narrator talks about what happens to his friends as they grow up makes me cry every time - it's particularly bittersweet when you know what happened to River Phoenix in real life. The story is simple (OK, a little macabre, it's true - it IS Stephen King, after all) but so sweet, so charming at the same time, I can't imagine anyone not being pulled in a little bit. It's like every kid's ideal childhood adventure, a childhood from another time, another age. The actors are great, the music's great, and Kiefer Sutherland snarls his way into classic mean kid status.

3. A Room With A View. Total change of style and pace. This film conjures up such good memories for me - my friend J and I went InterRailing "round Europe" waaaaay back in 1989. We didn't actually visit that many countries or places, but that was a deliberate choice: we decided we'd much rather spend a few days in each place than whizz through a city a day and only have blurred memories. We planned much of our trip during our "Classical Civilization" lectures, and we decided on France, Italy, Austria and Germany. For Italy, we were very much influenced by this wonderful film - and indeed watched it on video the night before we left. This film always, always makes me think of J, who is still one of my very, very best friends. The fact that the film also stars a whole slew of my favourite actors and actresses (Helena Bonham-Carter, Maggie Smith, Judi Dench, Denholm Elliot, Julian Sands (veeerrrry sexy), Rupert Graves, Simon Callow...) is most certainly no coincidence...

2. Don Juan DeMarco. Ah, Johnny Depp... *sigh*... I've had a crush on Johnny Depp since I first saw him in Arizona Dream, way back when I was first living in Lyon. I actually - unlike most people it would seem - find him LESS appealing as Jack Sparrow, and much prefer him in the slightly kooky characters pre-Pirates of the Caribbean: Gilbert Grape, Benny and Joon, Ed Wood, Edward Scissorhands (all great films that I've very much enjoyed). But this film, oh, it's just adorable. Truly adorable. JD is soooo cute, with his sexy accent, his overblown tales of adventure and love, his whole persona. Brando is excellent as his shrink, Faye Dunaway delightfully flaky as Brando's wife and the whole film is delicious. I don't have it on DVD (yet!) but back when I had a video-player, I watched this A LOT. Another feel-good go-to film!

1. Grease. The first film I remember begging to be taken to see at the cinema. The year it came out. So, yeah, I'm old. But I was very young back then and my mother was dead against me seeing it, probably worried about some of the "language" or "scenes", all of which went straight over my naive little brain. I ADORED this film and developed a huge crush (as only an 8-year-old can) on John Travolta. The very first single (on vinyl!) I ever bought was "Summer Nights". One long, lonely summer during my university years, I watched this film on DVD every. single. day. I know it by heart. Yet I still love it... It's still one of my guaranteed mood-picker-uppers, a go-to "happy" film... Fanstastic stuff!

Almost-made-the-lists: Breaking the Waves: probably one of the most devastating films I've ever seen, it turns me to mush every time, a sobbing heap of misery on the sofa. Yet I love it too. Must be the masochist lurking within. The Sound of Music: what can I say? A classic among classics, a much-loved childhood standard, Julie-freaking-Andrews, all those SONGS... Wonderful. Dead Man Walking: sober and serious, moving and masterful, a great film that really got me thinking about my position regarding the death penalty. Sean Penn is AMAZING in this. Leaving Las Vegas: another devastating film, and Nic Cage at his absolute, absolute best (this film didn't make the Top Five simply because it's not a film I would watch over, and over again - too heartbreaking, too tough). He got an Oscar for this and totally deserved it.

I could probably go on and on, but this is already way too long, so I'm going to stop now. But I've really enjoyed doing this, even if I doubt that anyone will read as far as this...

Funk

2011-04-05T01:26:00.000+02:00

So, yeah. I'm in a bit of a funk tonight. Quite a lot of a funk, actually. I would never have imagined that one day I'd find it so hard, so uncomfortable, so unpleasant to have to be in the same room as D for an extended period of time. But it is. Or at least, it is NOW.

The PTA thing was my thing. It was the thing I invested myself in, the thing I did. Since we split, D has started coming to all the meetings too. And I HATE him for it. I know it's his right, and I know there's no argument I could ever put forward that would justify my feelings, but still. I do, I HATE that he comes.

I also hate that he's got "M", a nice, reliable, solid, respectable (so it seems, I barely know her) woman he knows from his church. He claims they're not an item, and that may be true. But he sees her all the time, he drives her car, she picks the girls up from school, they've stayed at her place (without D, to be fair), and will now be staying at her place with D while she's away. I HATE him for this, too. I feel like he's replaced me, with some mild-mannered church-going type. She's great with the girls, and they really like her, and to be honest, I've got nothing against her - apart from the fact that she does more fun stuff with my little girls than I do.

I'm alone, every night, every weekend, all the time. I'm more lonely than I've ever been in my entire life, more isolated and scared and miserable. And he's limpet-ed to this M woman. And they spend more time (more "fun" time, anyway) with my girls than I do.

So yeah. Total funk tonight. Watching Mad Men didn't help, either (I find this series strangely compelling, yet unbelievably wooden and depressing at the same time. Can't explain why I keep watching it at ALL).

Sorry. This wasn't meant to be another moan-fest, but that's what came out when I started typing.

Books

2011-04-03T18:36:00.000+02:00

I've always loved reading. I don't remember learning to read (in Britain you typically start at about 4 I think, whereas here in France it's not till 6), and I certainly don't remember it being traumatic or difficult (unlike telling the time and times tables which. Well. Not so much fun).

I was often alone as a child, what with being the only child of parents who seemed to love moving from one end of the country to another every 12-18 months, and having no family to speak of (I actually have a pretty large family, but no one knows each other, everyone's much older than I am and many members are no longer speaking to other members. Dysfunctional, clearly). So books became one of my go-to activities.

I studied literature in high school (French, English and Latin), I studied literature at university (French, Spanish, classics-in-translation). I started a "buy-a-book-a-week" thing when I was a student and kept it up for years. Amazon loves me.

Strangely enough, I've never been a fan of libraries - I like BUYING books, OWNING books, REREADING FAVOURITE books; not borrowing-reading-returning books.

If you've read any previous entries in this blog, you'll probably be surprised, given my propensity for whining, complaining and bemoaning my fate, that many, many of my favourite authors and books are, in fact, funny. Laugh out loud funny. Hilarious, tears streaming down your face funny. Oh, and gory detective novels too, but lots of funny, for sure.

So, I've decided to let you in to my own personal library and share with you some of my favourite books. They're mostly not recent at all (but all "modern" - I love literature, but not so much the "classics", the "19th century" (or older) stuff; I've read my fair share of it, liked some, loved some even, but hated more. So yeah. This will most definitely be 20th and 21st century stuff), and you may already know most of them, but still. Here we go.

In this post, I'm going to talk about a book that makes me cry laughing every time I read it. Yes, it's simplistic and no, the characters aren't particularly likeable, but the book is funny: it's "Are you experienced?" by William Sutcliffe (1997!).

The summary of the plot is in the link, so I won't bore you with that. What I liked was how it perfectly captures the snobism of the "year-outers": I didn't do a year out (too cowardly) and believe me, you soon get fed up with those who did, banging on incessantly about their hardships and spiritual awakening in far-flung places (trekking in the mountains of Afghanistan, living rough in Bolivia, back-packing round Asia...). Yes, they may have had marvellous experiences, but it shouldn't make those who didn't do it feel like lesser human beings as a result... Dave is perfect in his role of boring, cowardly, unenthusiastic traveller, and Liz is equally perfect as the full-blown year-outer par excellence.

The writing is simple, though there are some clever character sketches. You don't really get much of a feel of India (there are all the stereotypes and clichés though), but that's not really the point. This isn't (AT ALL) a guidebook for those actually planning to back-pack round India. The setting is almost irrelevant, in fact: what counts is the attitudes of the characters, and many are hilarious (I particularly liked J - I'm sure I've met him, with his pretentious claptrap and money sent from Daddy).

If you're looking for something light to read, something that will make you laugh out loud but not overly tax your brain, a book to take on holiday or on a long train ride, this is the one!

Tonic

2011-04-03T07:49:00.000+02:00

I don't think I'll ever fully understand quite what it is about Schwepps' Indian Tonic Water that I love so much (I actually drink the diet version because I prefer the taste - maybe because there's no HFCS in it? I don't know) but boy, do I love it! I've been drinking it on and off all day. If I analyse the taste, I find that I don't actually have much good to say about it, but there's just something about it. I prefer the taste (sweet!) of Diet Coke but know that diet tonic water is probably less bad for me, so I've switched. Besides, yellow is my favourite colour...

Fool's day

2011-04-02T02:33:00.000+02:00

When I was a kid, I really liked April Fool's Day. I used to play harmless (but to my mind hilarious) tricks on my parents, particularly my dad - I put blue food colouring in the milk he put on his cereal one year, another year I swapped the milk and orange juice (hmmm... coffee with orange juice, yum!), that kind of thing. At school we used to play tricks on our Latin teacher (because he had the best sense of humour and used to play elaborate tricks on us too) and the History teacher (because she was the most gullible). It was always harmless, never humiliating, just funny.

In France, the main idea is to stick paper fish on people's backs. I've no idea where this comes from, but it seems pretty harmless to me and though I've rarely participated in the "fun", I don't mind it. Not at all (last year I think, I hid paper fish in the girls' snack boxes for school and in D's papers or something).

What I don't like is the kind of tricks D likes to play. Sometimes they're OK, because they're so outrageous no one really believes them from the outset (though a kind friend DID believe him a few years ago when he told her we'd been given a goat to look after and could she help us - she called her ex-husband and was ready to get her son to drive the goat to her ex-husband's goat farm for us...).

But there was another year - probably about 4 or 5 years ago - when D came up with the brilliant idea of telling everyone (family, friends, local shopkeepers, the stallholders at our local market...) that I'd run off to live with another man, leaving him (D) without a steady job, without steady income and with two small children to look after all by himself. He pretended to be heart-broken, asking people if they could help him with the girls while he pulled himself together (oh, the irony!). I was furious - it made me seem like a real bitch and, because he'd told people who didn't really know me, when they saw me, they all looked at me as if I were the worst person in the world. Of course, he confessed the truth and what have you, but still. I always felt that some of the shopkeepers/stall holders had a niggling doubt about me after that...

This year, I was spared D's tricks. He played one on the girls, but I don't think they fell for it (L might have done, but I don't think so). I also got round the problem by virtually not leaving the house all day.

So who's the fool in all this? Me, probably, because I totally fucked up today - my alarm didn't go off, so I got up too late, meaning I couldn't get the girls to school for 8.30, meaning I had to keep them home till 1.45 pm, so I got nothing done this morning, then I had birthday presents to buy this afternoon and voilà. A totally unproductive day (again).

I escaped the part of April Fool's Day I dislike (another advantage to this otherwise hellish situation, I suppose), so maybe I'm not so much of a fool after all. And I don't think I fell for any pranks on the internet either...

What I do know is that the prank calls are over for another year, and that's good.

The other thing I know is that April Fool's Day was our anniversary. This would have been our 15th. That's been on my mind all day, and has made me unutterably sad. 14 years, down the drain. 14 years of trust, and encouragement, and support, and love - all for nothing. All's that's left is pain and loneliness and bitterness and a shitload of anger.

The only good thing to come out of those 14 years is our beautiful, beautiful little girls (a true blessing, for sure, and I couldn't wish for better), they are all that makes it worthwhile. For the rest, I wish it had never happened, he's hurt me too badly now, hurt me, wounded me, destroyed a part of me forever. And I'm not good at forgiving (or forgetting for that matter).

So maybe I am the Fool after all.