I’ve never had it so good
In my column last month, I argued that the only way to save France was to put
some Brits in charge. This produced an extraordinarily large and rather
critical mailbag. “Why don’t you go home to that wonderful utopia called
England and leave the French to organise things their way?” asks Graham
Harris, who lives in Switzerland.
Jean, a Frenchman who has lived in London for more than 20 years, was equally
scathing. “You’re not in India in the old days any more,” he wrote. “Why
don’t you just come back to the sunny, prosperous and friendly UK?” (Not
that it can be so bad in Britain if he has lived there all that time.)
I admit that it was never my idea to come to France. It was my husband’s. He
came home one day and said: “Let’s move to the Languedoc.” I ignored him at
first, but now, seven years after making the move, I am still here,
struggling on. You have no idea of the trials and tribulations I’ve had to
suffer.
My days are tough. They begin early, as I am woken by the sound of the
swallows that have built a nest in our house. I drag myself from my bed into
the garden for a quick swim in the pool, then to the nearest fig tree to
pick my breakfast. I don’t always have figs; sometimes I have peaches or
apricots, or a mixture of all three. The stress of deciding which tree to go
for first is excruciating.
After breakfast, there is the school run. Oh, how I miss dodging all those
4WDs driven by blonde women wearing designer jeans. As I freewheel down the
hill on my bicycle, with my son on the back and my daughters pedalling away
in front, I think fondly of the double parking, the road rage, parking
tickets and the traffic jams going on without me.
The school here is fine, and the children seem happy, but what I find I am
missing is that letter at the beginning of term demanding £4,000 in fees per
child. Most odd that we’ve never had one. Perhaps foreigners are exempt?
No longer am I allowed to have a cheese and pickle sandwich at my desk for
lunch. Now I have to stop whatever I’m doing at midday and sit down to a
proper meal. Regulations state that it must be three courses, although
sometimes I get away with two. Of course, all this eating begins with
shopping, so at least three times a week, I haul myself into the local
medieval town and trawl around the shops.
First up is the deli, the Crémerie Clerc. There I am forced to choose between
any number of varieties of fresh fruit and vegetables, as well as at least
40 cheeses, hams and pâtés. Sometimes I get so confused, I just have to
stand and eat some juicy green olives from M Clerc’s olive jar while I
steady my nerves.
After Clerc’s, I go to the bakery to pick up some warm bread, possibly two or
three loaves, maybe one with figs, nuts or raisins. Then I move on to the
fishmonger, who on Fridays often has turbot caught that morning in the sea,
half an hour away. If we’re eating meat, I go to the butcher, who makes
hamburgers from prime beef for the children. But how I miss the convenience
of a Tesco superstore, with its vast car park, well-dressed staff and
trolleys with their own sense of direction.
After all that shopping and lunch, I am forced to have a siesta. Thankfully,
this is obligatory only in the summer months, when the heat makes work
almost impossible. So I lie there fuming, imagining what fun it must be to
be in a London office instead of relaxing on my bed with the fan on above me
and the cicadas chirping away outside.
Of course, I dread getting ill in France. I have had two babies here, and each
time I was put in solitary confinement, with attentive, cheerful staff
popping in every few hours. There was even a woman who came by every morning
to take my food order. Would I prefer the fish or the chicken for lunch? And
what about pudding? How irritating can you get? Surely it’s perfectly
obvious I never eat pudding.
The other annoying thing here is the public transport system. Where’s the fun
in a train being on time and going where it says it is going to go? In
Britain, when you get on a train, there’s at least a bit of suspense. And as
for that old “Sorry I’m late, darling, I got stuck in traffic” excuse,
there’s no chance of using that one here. I must have been to the airport
150 times, and each time it has taken me pretty much exactly 60 minutes.
Let’s not even mention the weather; it’s so bloody good, there’s nothing to
talk or write about. Why can’t we have floods, so I can appear on television
in a canoe looking heroic and slightly dishevelled?
But enough of my whingeing and back to the mailbag. At least one reader
appears to be paying attention. Since my column appeared, the French
president, Nicolas Sarkozy, has begun waging war on the 35-hour week. He has
also said that he wants to abolish inheritance tax and cap income tax. My
programme is well on the way to being adopted. With my influence at an
all-time high, I can see no reason to leave.
WANT TO RELEASE some equity from your property? A quick call to your bank or
building society should be enough, shouldn’t it? Not in France. Our bank,
Crédit Agricole du Midi, may have renamed itself Crédit Agricole du
Languedoc and hired several English-speaking staff, but that doesn’t make it
any easier to raise more money.
Our cause is an admirable one: building a tennis court to make a Wimbledon
champion out of one of our three children. “Fat chance,” or words to that
effect, says one of the bank’s staff, when we call to inquire. “There is no
difference in what the bank requires, even if we speak in English,” she
tells me. “You will need to fill out lots of forms and send us masses of
documents. And you can’t borrow more than 35% of your monthly earnings. So,
do you want to go ahead or not? We would have to do it today, because I am
going on holiday for three weeks.”
More France Please, We’re British by Helena Frith Powell (Gibson Square
Books £9.99) is available at the Sunday Times BooksFirst price of £9.49,
with free delivery in the UK. Call 0870 165 8585 or visit timesonline.co.uk/booksfirst
helena@sunday-times.co.uk
LA VIE EN ROSE
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