(from the teachings of Wikipedia):
“The oil of wintergreen is used topically (diluted) or aromatherapeutically for muscle and joint discomfort, arthritis, cellulite, obesity, edema, poor circulation, headache, heart disease, hypertension, rheumatism, cramps, inflammation, eczema, hair care, psoriasis, gout, ulcer (dermatology), broken or bruised bones…”
… and haven’t we all suffered from at least seven of these foul afflictions?
Traditionally, now is the time of year when they seem particularly irritating; the weather’s bleak, your best Christmas present is broken and your bottom has become a Pavement Hazard.
Well Au Contraire! (As we say in Bognor). I love post-Christmas. The cold is invigorating yet a great excuse for not gardening; my beloved Betty Boop watch did indeed stop working, but was revived by a new battery; and I have revelled in a guilt-free Christmas sugar mountain.
I once heard that the start of February and NOT January is the best time to revolutionise oneself with diet or things of that ilk - Pchaw to Resolutions of the Brand New Year!
With this in mind, I’ve spent the last ten days shovelling away Christmas dregs in order to consume Everything by the February deadline. Even those ghastly lumps of fruit-tinted jelly that George has weirdly grown to quite like.
From today, 3rd Feb, Things will be Different! (It had to be postponed from the 1st owing to dastardly vat of duck paté with figs that had to be finished). But now, No More sugar, far less alcohol, and mini-trampolining every day to deep-rhythm music from Christmas DVD of ‘TrueBlood’ theme (have you seen this fabulous vampires-in-the-community series?). (I chose a gentle link here, but there are still a few Teeth):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X6bh4ka3Roc
((I can't get this damn video clip to play, but the music's great if you can go to the bother of copy & pasting into the http slot))
What else? Radically get my hair cut for the first time in four months, learn to give proper English lessons and speak proper French, blog at least once a fortnight, write a famous novel, paint the kitchen, chop down twenty feet of our ghastly leylandii, become a radio continuity announcer because it sounds such fun, invent a self-emptying cat tray, travel the world and save people, and… and be generally sort of Revolutionised.
So exciting! Why didn’t I do this last February? Or the Feb before...
Where to begin? Well, the cat tray would be useful but the hair’s more pressing so I'll ring them tomorrow. The leylandii are Huge – I expect George would like to do those. People to save... in times of snow & powercut I usually try to save our elderly neighbours, but they always send me away snortingly. I'm not sure why - But I mustn't let it put me off.
Maybe the best First Thing would be to find that tin of Ivory Cream Steam-defying Washable we bought last summer and - Oh Sod It! Where's that bottle of Wintergreen...
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
It Came from Outer Space
What the hell IS that?
We had friends round for a meal at the weekend – lovely friends who laughed heartily when George burnt the rice, and chewed stoically on my resistant lumps of Pork-in-Ginger with nere a grimace.
These are friends for whom the getting together is paramount rather than the food offerings (mercifully), and who I’m almost certain will not mind when I say that Picards Freezer Emporium is their own market of choice.
So this weekend they brought their fun and frivolity, a superb bottle of wine and… a Thing - the like of which we’d never seen before! (I shall attempt further down to display a photo). But to try and describe it…
It’s about 30cm tall and comes in two parts. One’s a knobbly stick with a pinkyorangeyfurry tennis ball on top, covered in many yellow arrow-headed fronds.
The other part is a flat green stick with a corrugated heart-shaped fan. Beautiul… but what is it for? You could possibly plunge the sink with the tennis ball… despatch tenacious cobwebs, stick it behind your ear while fanning yourself with the other bit…
Alarmingly, Mélanie grabbed The Thing while George and I were still coming to terms with it, and ran with it to the sink – for it's actually Alive! They insisted it came from a flower shop, so now it’s in a vase and yes, it’s drinking the water! I’d say it’s grown twenty feet since Saturday. Ah-hah - Could it be a beanstalk?
The tennis blob has a delicate aroma redolent of cauliflower, yet bizarrely aromatic. We've noticed the cats aren’t keen at all. In fact I suspect that they, like me, think it sometimes moves its fronds. And I could swear it just turned to watch as I walked past.
So, is it trying to communicate? Will it start singing those irritating five notes from 'Close Encounters'? Or will it suddenly leap Triffidly out of its vase and whack us with its fan?
Mélanie, Eveline and Ignace say that they'd never seen one before either, and had gone into the shop to buy an orchid. There was just something about it that made them choose that instead...
It's Just The Beginning...
We had friends round for a meal at the weekend – lovely friends who laughed heartily when George burnt the rice, and chewed stoically on my resistant lumps of Pork-in-Ginger with nere a grimace.
These are friends for whom the getting together is paramount rather than the food offerings (mercifully), and who I’m almost certain will not mind when I say that Picards Freezer Emporium is their own market of choice.
So this weekend they brought their fun and frivolity, a superb bottle of wine and… a Thing - the like of which we’d never seen before! (I shall attempt further down to display a photo). But to try and describe it…
It’s about 30cm tall and comes in two parts. One’s a knobbly stick with a pinkyorangeyfurry tennis ball on top, covered in many yellow arrow-headed fronds.
The other part is a flat green stick with a corrugated heart-shaped fan. Beautiul… but what is it for? You could possibly plunge the sink with the tennis ball… despatch tenacious cobwebs, stick it behind your ear while fanning yourself with the other bit…
Alarmingly, Mélanie grabbed The Thing while George and I were still coming to terms with it, and ran with it to the sink – for it's actually Alive! They insisted it came from a flower shop, so now it’s in a vase and yes, it’s drinking the water! I’d say it’s grown twenty feet since Saturday. Ah-hah - Could it be a beanstalk?
The tennis blob has a delicate aroma redolent of cauliflower, yet bizarrely aromatic. We've noticed the cats aren’t keen at all. In fact I suspect that they, like me, think it sometimes moves its fronds. And I could swear it just turned to watch as I walked past.
So, is it trying to communicate? Will it start singing those irritating five notes from 'Close Encounters'? Or will it suddenly leap Triffidly out of its vase and whack us with its fan?
Mélanie, Eveline and Ignace say that they'd never seen one before either, and had gone into the shop to buy an orchid. There was just something about it that made them choose that instead...
It's Just The Beginning...
Sunday, October 18, 2009
The Tour de Paris-Tours
Pchaw to the Tour de France – we have a better Tour, one that goes right past our front door! Last weekend, 155 riders set off from Paris (or Chartres, fairly nearby) on the gruelling 230km ride to Tours.
It was won by the Belgian Philippe Gilbert thanks in part, it must be assumed, to his attention to vital details such as choosing the perfect rider to get into the slipstream of on the home strait. The runner-up, Tom Boonen, was most disheartened by his own mistake there... (What about the very kind Exuder of the Slipstream, I'd like to know)…
For I understand little of this kind of stuff – what’s most memorable for me is the joyful gathering of neighbours to watch the race whizz past our very pavement, with the sharing of Almost-Champagne and Nibbles.
We gathered last year too, but made the mistake of not realising that the riders came in two chunks – not only the Elites (or Proper ones)... (I don't mean that, I mean Super-Experienced ones), but also the Espoirs (Aspiring Star ones). The Espoirs race an hour before the others and last year, we all thought that was the end. They were Going Like the Clappers, after all…
It was only when George put the TV on later, that he noticed something very like Our House on the live coverage of a bike race. Sure enough, a quick peer out of the window found a helicopter circling, closely followed at ground level by the Whoosh of a second clutch of racers.
Well? Everbody else was fooled, too…
This year, George took up position at the top of the slope well in advance and armed with super-charged video camera, while I popped down to banter gaily with the other spectators. They’d been there since before the Espoirs, and were suitably merry.
If my French were more equal to the multi-dialect SpatterChat that is a street gathering, I’d have gone out earlier too. As it is, twenty minutes of vague nodding and slipping in the odd completely inappropriate sentence, is enough. For everyone…
The ambience, though, is convivial and patriotic, with yells of “Vive l’Angleterre aussi!” generously tucked in. There were about twenty of us, and it was a great chance to cement relationships with, for example, the couple who’d only moved in a week before (I’d launched myself at them while walking past one day, but this time they showed no anxiety whatsoever).
There were two wise-looking elders in the best seats (cushions on their picnic chairs), and various people of the vicinity. We discovered that the horrid, rotund neighbour who drives right up our exhaust is, in fact, quite a nice person, as are the gang of shady-looking second-homers who were leaning on the fence opposite (keeping it between them and us).
In fact, when retired Hélène impressively caught the water bottle flung to the crowd by one of the Elites, she took it across to the ten-year-old. (She may have suddenly realised it had been heavily dribbled-upon)…
Disappointingly, that was the only Present flung this time. Usually the very long publicity caravan has staff chucking tee-shirts, caps and sweets into the excited masses, and there is much gnashing of teeth and elbows to grab a prize.
A few years ago, George and I went to see the Tour-Tour de France, but in the galaxy of delights raining down, all we managed to catch was a wizened bit of dried sausage. And I had to really shout at that evil little child, too… Wasn’t his Puncture Repair Kit Enough?
We don't know if the Paris-Tours will happen again next year - there are rumours it will go a different route. How we'll miss the flashing lights, the motorbikes, the smiling, waving policemen and the loud hailers screaming: "Get Out of the Waaaay!"
It was won by the Belgian Philippe Gilbert thanks in part, it must be assumed, to his attention to vital details such as choosing the perfect rider to get into the slipstream of on the home strait. The runner-up, Tom Boonen, was most disheartened by his own mistake there... (What about the very kind Exuder of the Slipstream, I'd like to know)…
For I understand little of this kind of stuff – what’s most memorable for me is the joyful gathering of neighbours to watch the race whizz past our very pavement, with the sharing of Almost-Champagne and Nibbles.
We gathered last year too, but made the mistake of not realising that the riders came in two chunks – not only the Elites (or Proper ones)... (I don't mean that, I mean Super-Experienced ones), but also the Espoirs (Aspiring Star ones). The Espoirs race an hour before the others and last year, we all thought that was the end. They were Going Like the Clappers, after all…
It was only when George put the TV on later, that he noticed something very like Our House on the live coverage of a bike race. Sure enough, a quick peer out of the window found a helicopter circling, closely followed at ground level by the Whoosh of a second clutch of racers.
Well? Everbody else was fooled, too…
This year, George took up position at the top of the slope well in advance and armed with super-charged video camera, while I popped down to banter gaily with the other spectators. They’d been there since before the Espoirs, and were suitably merry.
If my French were more equal to the multi-dialect SpatterChat that is a street gathering, I’d have gone out earlier too. As it is, twenty minutes of vague nodding and slipping in the odd completely inappropriate sentence, is enough. For everyone…
The ambience, though, is convivial and patriotic, with yells of “Vive l’Angleterre aussi!” generously tucked in. There were about twenty of us, and it was a great chance to cement relationships with, for example, the couple who’d only moved in a week before (I’d launched myself at them while walking past one day, but this time they showed no anxiety whatsoever).
There were two wise-looking elders in the best seats (cushions on their picnic chairs), and various people of the vicinity. We discovered that the horrid, rotund neighbour who drives right up our exhaust is, in fact, quite a nice person, as are the gang of shady-looking second-homers who were leaning on the fence opposite (keeping it between them and us).
In fact, when retired Hélène impressively caught the water bottle flung to the crowd by one of the Elites, she took it across to the ten-year-old. (She may have suddenly realised it had been heavily dribbled-upon)…
Disappointingly, that was the only Present flung this time. Usually the very long publicity caravan has staff chucking tee-shirts, caps and sweets into the excited masses, and there is much gnashing of teeth and elbows to grab a prize.
A few years ago, George and I went to see the Tour-Tour de France, but in the galaxy of delights raining down, all we managed to catch was a wizened bit of dried sausage. And I had to really shout at that evil little child, too… Wasn’t his Puncture Repair Kit Enough?
We don't know if the Paris-Tours will happen again next year - there are rumours it will go a different route. How we'll miss the flashing lights, the motorbikes, the smiling, waving policemen and the loud hailers screaming: "Get Out of the Waaaay!"
Sunday, August 30, 2009
How to Park in Paris
First, take a Parisian. Add car of generous proportions and place in, say, the Latin Quarter, at eight o’clock at night.
It is still daylight so spotting a space, particularly with the experienced eyes of two additional Parisians on board, shouldn’t be too hard…
As non-Parisian friends on holiday, remember to help the driver with constant comments along the lines of, “There’s one over th-! no, sorry – disabled // Oh just look at how he’s parked – otherwise you could have got a Tank in… // Hey! that bugger pinched your space!”
Such encouragement is always welcome…
After an hour or so, one of the Parisians will merrily bid us farewell and go off to meet her boyfriend at a bar we have drawn unexpectedly close to. You could suggest to the others that really, it would be just as much fun to go back to the appartment, where I could rustle something up from the contents of the fridge. The co-driver will recall that the said contents amount to half a cucumber and some old teabags of the green mint kind.
Suddenly she sees an Actual Gap between two other cars, and Manoeuvres begin! It takes but five minutes of perfect directing “go on stop go on stop turn go on back stop stop no Stop!” and magnificent wheel control, to parallel-park the car - leaving four centimetres front and back between neighbourly bumpers. If Only we’d had the camera…
Yet, this feat seemed As Naught to the Parisians… They park as they drive – ignoring all obstacles.
After dinner, as they drive you round L’Arc de Triomphe de l’Etoile - the immense roundabout with its twelve exits and several million cars aiming At Yours - you must try very hard to muffle your screams.
And then be ready to spot a Parking Space vaguely in the vicinity of the appartment.
It is still daylight so spotting a space, particularly with the experienced eyes of two additional Parisians on board, shouldn’t be too hard…
As non-Parisian friends on holiday, remember to help the driver with constant comments along the lines of, “There’s one over th-! no, sorry – disabled // Oh just look at how he’s parked – otherwise you could have got a Tank in… // Hey! that bugger pinched your space!”
Such encouragement is always welcome…
After an hour or so, one of the Parisians will merrily bid us farewell and go off to meet her boyfriend at a bar we have drawn unexpectedly close to. You could suggest to the others that really, it would be just as much fun to go back to the appartment, where I could rustle something up from the contents of the fridge. The co-driver will recall that the said contents amount to half a cucumber and some old teabags of the green mint kind.
Suddenly she sees an Actual Gap between two other cars, and Manoeuvres begin! It takes but five minutes of perfect directing “go on stop go on stop turn go on back stop stop no Stop!” and magnificent wheel control, to parallel-park the car - leaving four centimetres front and back between neighbourly bumpers. If Only we’d had the camera…
Yet, this feat seemed As Naught to the Parisians… They park as they drive – ignoring all obstacles.
After dinner, as they drive you round L’Arc de Triomphe de l’Etoile - the immense roundabout with its twelve exits and several million cars aiming At Yours - you must try very hard to muffle your screams.
And then be ready to spot a Parking Space vaguely in the vicinity of the appartment.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
VITAL Papers
‘But WHY do you want to change your driving licence, madame?’ said the surprised voice. ‘It’s unnecessary - England is in the EU!’
‘You’re Right!’ I nearly said, ‘What the hell am I doing, voluntarily plunging into the tortured bowels of French bureaucracy?’
But I didn’t say it. Because my English licence is quite old – one of those pink and green papery things coming apart at the folds, and there's certainly No Photograph. (Did we even have cameras)? So it's instantly suspicious.
And you’re never sure of the reaction it’ll provoke when stopped routinely by the gendarmes: we've had hilarity, fascination, incomprehension, Outrage-with-Severe-Reprimand for even bringing it to France (he was an unusually unpleasant specimen having a bad day)… But I don’t want to be flung into an oubliette because of my annoying driving licence.
The Préfectures in France are the Houses of Mass Administration. In March this year I made my first foray into their Website/licences/driving/resident/foreigner/EU/shortperson… This revealed an interminable list of Essential Documents that must be Translated by approved professionals and Sworn to by approved professionals who Mustn't Know me At All.
Naturally I gave up, but re-attacked a month later by phoning for clarification. A very friendly bloke narrowed the List down to proof of address, old licence and a photo - Just take them down to the Préfecture and they’ll send me a French licence. Simple!
Then I forgot about it. Until this week when with uncharacteristic Dynamism, I assembled all the docs, including terrifying photo (“you mustn’t smile, madame!”) and phoned to check they were open that afternoon…
But it seems every member of The Administration has a different set of rules. That day's member, after my insistence on carrying it through, passed me on to a colleague with special knowledge.
The colleague pointed out the need for another document (there's always one more) with proof of Maiden Name. Have you ever noticed that Maiden Names are instantly jettisoned from British passports and the like? Eventually I found some old GCE certificates, and post-eventually, birth and marriage ones (I’ll take them all).
I couldn’t go that afternoon, though, because this person was adamant that an appointment was imperative. ‘OK then – when can I come?’ (Hoping she wouldn't say Wednesday afternoon, as I had a trim & blow dry booked). 'End of September, madame'.
Damn! What a complete waste of Dynamism!
Still, it will be properly sorted out then, because every administrator we've met here has been charming and helpful in spite of our incoherent jabberings.
And of course, it gives me time for a load more attempts at the Terrifying Photo…
‘You’re Right!’ I nearly said, ‘What the hell am I doing, voluntarily plunging into the tortured bowels of French bureaucracy?’
But I didn’t say it. Because my English licence is quite old – one of those pink and green papery things coming apart at the folds, and there's certainly No Photograph. (Did we even have cameras)? So it's instantly suspicious.
And you’re never sure of the reaction it’ll provoke when stopped routinely by the gendarmes: we've had hilarity, fascination, incomprehension, Outrage-with-Severe-Reprimand for even bringing it to France (he was an unusually unpleasant specimen having a bad day)… But I don’t want to be flung into an oubliette because of my annoying driving licence.
The Préfectures in France are the Houses of Mass Administration. In March this year I made my first foray into their Website/licences/driving/resident/foreigner/EU/shortperson… This revealed an interminable list of Essential Documents that must be Translated by approved professionals and Sworn to by approved professionals who Mustn't Know me At All.
Naturally I gave up, but re-attacked a month later by phoning for clarification. A very friendly bloke narrowed the List down to proof of address, old licence and a photo - Just take them down to the Préfecture and they’ll send me a French licence. Simple!
Then I forgot about it. Until this week when with uncharacteristic Dynamism, I assembled all the docs, including terrifying photo (“you mustn’t smile, madame!”) and phoned to check they were open that afternoon…
But it seems every member of The Administration has a different set of rules. That day's member, after my insistence on carrying it through, passed me on to a colleague with special knowledge.
The colleague pointed out the need for another document (there's always one more) with proof of Maiden Name. Have you ever noticed that Maiden Names are instantly jettisoned from British passports and the like? Eventually I found some old GCE certificates, and post-eventually, birth and marriage ones (I’ll take them all).
I couldn’t go that afternoon, though, because this person was adamant that an appointment was imperative. ‘OK then – when can I come?’ (Hoping she wouldn't say Wednesday afternoon, as I had a trim & blow dry booked). 'End of September, madame'.
Damn! What a complete waste of Dynamism!
Still, it will be properly sorted out then, because every administrator we've met here has been charming and helpful in spite of our incoherent jabberings.
And of course, it gives me time for a load more attempts at the Terrifying Photo…
Monday, August 3, 2009
Things to do with Kippers
The other day we went round to friends for lunch in the garden – perfect tranquillity on the outskirts of town, warm sunshine, fragrance of fresh rosemary, thyme, mint…
Fabienne’s “light lunch” began with plates of tiny tomatoes, olives, nuts, quiche and water melon; it slipped into gala melon with parma ham; then we had prawns and monkfish with wild rice; wonderful cheeses; and a fruit tart with plums and apricots grown within two hundred yards - the neighbours are very friendly.
George and I have embraced French cuisine enthusiastically – everyone is keen to share their secrets; there are TV chefs and magazines and cookbooks, and our style of cooking has changed a lot since moving here.
Sadly, our style of Presentation has not. Fabienne’s appetisers were colour co-ordinated and came in handy bite-size. The gala melon was displayed like the rays of the sun, with the ham wrapped round breadsticks. The mountain of prawns was a delicate, attractive mountain, (not the unbalanced splodge I’d have constructed). The cheeses were arranged with pleasing symmetry, and the tart glistened lusciously.
Food in France is for savouring, and before savouring, we must be tantalised by hints of fresh and subtle flavours to come…
So what the hell can Fabienne possibly see in Kippers? And how can it be that every so often, she and the neighbours gather at ten in the morning for a Kipper Fest!
Sensibly, they cook them in the garden (one assumes it's by Short Straw), and accompany them with champagne. Which could help. Cats must come from many miles for this...
Personally, I loathe kippers – the taste, the Smell, the Bones. And I’ve always thought of them as a Man Favourite, like Kidneys or Tripe (which always seems to be trying to shudder its way out of the pan). How can such things appeal to a frothy, feminine person, and all her neighbours to boot!
There is obviously still much for us to learn about French cuisine. After all, we'd never have thought of cooking Beef Cheeks till the village butcher unleashed their succulent secrets to us.
Right! Take bunch of Kippers...
Fabienne’s “light lunch” began with plates of tiny tomatoes, olives, nuts, quiche and water melon; it slipped into gala melon with parma ham; then we had prawns and monkfish with wild rice; wonderful cheeses; and a fruit tart with plums and apricots grown within two hundred yards - the neighbours are very friendly.
George and I have embraced French cuisine enthusiastically – everyone is keen to share their secrets; there are TV chefs and magazines and cookbooks, and our style of cooking has changed a lot since moving here.
Sadly, our style of Presentation has not. Fabienne’s appetisers were colour co-ordinated and came in handy bite-size. The gala melon was displayed like the rays of the sun, with the ham wrapped round breadsticks. The mountain of prawns was a delicate, attractive mountain, (not the unbalanced splodge I’d have constructed). The cheeses were arranged with pleasing symmetry, and the tart glistened lusciously.
Food in France is for savouring, and before savouring, we must be tantalised by hints of fresh and subtle flavours to come…
So what the hell can Fabienne possibly see in Kippers? And how can it be that every so often, she and the neighbours gather at ten in the morning for a Kipper Fest!
Sensibly, they cook them in the garden (one assumes it's by Short Straw), and accompany them with champagne. Which could help. Cats must come from many miles for this...
Personally, I loathe kippers – the taste, the Smell, the Bones. And I’ve always thought of them as a Man Favourite, like Kidneys or Tripe (which always seems to be trying to shudder its way out of the pan). How can such things appeal to a frothy, feminine person, and all her neighbours to boot!
There is obviously still much for us to learn about French cuisine. After all, we'd never have thought of cooking Beef Cheeks till the village butcher unleashed their succulent secrets to us.
Right! Take bunch of Kippers...
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Bring me the Head of Alfredo Mallard
… that I may glue it back on with evostick.
Alfredo is my favourite of the ducks that fly across our fridge in homage to Hilda Ogden http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hilda_Ogden. This morning I swept him to the floor with vigorous Dettox, and his head went the way of one of his long-lost little yellow feet. We’re searching still.
In England-our-old-country I used to love Coronation Street (which I think finally grew to several hundred episodes a week); even got George interested (or he surrendered). For, as opposed to deeply gloom-filled EastEnders, Corrie characters actually had Different Characters, often very funny (deliberately) and always interesting.
Since moving to France, we fickley never give it a thought. We Have The Technology to watch English soaps and I bet that I (not George) could easily become engrossed in any – it’s the joy of poking your nose into other people’s existences without guilt or consequence…
In France, the soaps generally seem to be imported from the States – The Bold and the Beautiful; The Young and the Restless (woe betide thee if you disturb our neighbours while that’s on).
Does Dallas count as a soap? Here, it has different intro music and a rousing Song! “Dallas – your universe pitiless…” (The tune’s Very different). I have always been grateful for the translations I gleaned from it: “Show him in!”, for example, or “That’s blackmail!”, are always uppermost in my French chitchat.
There are also lots of American and German detective series in France, (“Get out of the WAY!” is handy) – always fascinating to hear the voice they use to dub an actor you know. Apparently they actually have voice doubles – wouldn’t that be a great job… I’d like to be Whoopie Goldberg’s please. Of course, mine might be a bit white and squeaky, but I’d be willing to have my vocal chords tweaked…
Not everything on TV here is imported; I must put in a vote for a recent brilliant French drama about the German occupation of a French village in 1940: Un Village Français – gripping and powerful and I can’t wait till it comes on again.
But back to Coronation Street. I acquired my collection of Hilda’s Flying Ducks some years ago, when George took me on a surprise visit to the set at Granada Studios. It was fabulous, with the Rovers Return and the Corner Shop and the cobbles and the general wonderment. (In fact, it was almost as good as the surprise visit to Cadbury World, where my souvenirs filled a wheelbarrow).
Distressingly, I’ve just discovered on Google that the Corrie tours stopped when the inordinate number of episodes per week required too much actual filming. Oh dear – so many disappointed fans.
Thank Heavens I got my Ducks in time.
Alfredo is my favourite of the ducks that fly across our fridge in homage to Hilda Ogden http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hilda_Ogden. This morning I swept him to the floor with vigorous Dettox, and his head went the way of one of his long-lost little yellow feet. We’re searching still.
In England-our-old-country I used to love Coronation Street (which I think finally grew to several hundred episodes a week); even got George interested (or he surrendered). For, as opposed to deeply gloom-filled EastEnders, Corrie characters actually had Different Characters, often very funny (deliberately) and always interesting.
Since moving to France, we fickley never give it a thought. We Have The Technology to watch English soaps and I bet that I (not George) could easily become engrossed in any – it’s the joy of poking your nose into other people’s existences without guilt or consequence…
In France, the soaps generally seem to be imported from the States – The Bold and the Beautiful; The Young and the Restless (woe betide thee if you disturb our neighbours while that’s on).
Does Dallas count as a soap? Here, it has different intro music and a rousing Song! “Dallas – your universe pitiless…” (The tune’s Very different). I have always been grateful for the translations I gleaned from it: “Show him in!”, for example, or “That’s blackmail!”, are always uppermost in my French chitchat.
There are also lots of American and German detective series in France, (“Get out of the WAY!” is handy) – always fascinating to hear the voice they use to dub an actor you know. Apparently they actually have voice doubles – wouldn’t that be a great job… I’d like to be Whoopie Goldberg’s please. Of course, mine might be a bit white and squeaky, but I’d be willing to have my vocal chords tweaked…
Not everything on TV here is imported; I must put in a vote for a recent brilliant French drama about the German occupation of a French village in 1940: Un Village Français – gripping and powerful and I can’t wait till it comes on again.
But back to Coronation Street. I acquired my collection of Hilda’s Flying Ducks some years ago, when George took me on a surprise visit to the set at Granada Studios. It was fabulous, with the Rovers Return and the Corner Shop and the cobbles and the general wonderment. (In fact, it was almost as good as the surprise visit to Cadbury World, where my souvenirs filled a wheelbarrow).
Distressingly, I’ve just discovered on Google that the Corrie tours stopped when the inordinate number of episodes per week required too much actual filming. Oh dear – so many disappointed fans.
Thank Heavens I got my Ducks in time.
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