French Obsession

New home on the web for French Obsession

2009-07-31T14:16:00.004+01:00

From now on, all future updates on my French Obsession can be found at my new Wordpress home: http://freshwordswriter.wordpress.com/french-obsession

Look forward to seeing you there.

Alright son?

2009-07-20T16:24:00.009+01:00

I have at long last discovered something about living in Scotland that I think has the edge over our Mediterranean partners in the Auld Alliance.

This morning as I walked from my house heading for the coalface I found myself fast approaching a little old lady on the pavement. Like many little old ladies she was taking each step carefully and slowly, helped along by a stick to give her extra stability. Her progress was slow but steady.

In great contrast, my morning routine is typified by being in something of a rush. The often repeated snooze facility on my alarm clock ensures that I am commonly late before I even get out of bed, so the walk is more of a run most mornings – though I’ve never yet resorted to Steve Martin’s advice that skipping is as fast as running but does not make you look like you’re in a hurry; no, it just makes you look like an idiot.

This morning then, as I ate into the distance between myself and the little old lady I first though, crikey, I hope she doesn’t get a fright with me coming up so fast behind her. As the toe of my ancient oxford’s caught on a raised crack in the surface of the pavement though (don’t get me started about the state of our pavements and roads), my thoughts quickly turned to, crikey, I hope I don’t fall on top of her.

Lady luck was on my side though and I neither startled the poor soul, nor crushed her beneath my feeble ten and a half stone frame. Looking at me with her kindly face as I tried to regain my composure she said something that warmed my heart.

“Are you alright son?” she said.

Now just to be clear, while I was pleased that she asked if I was OK, I was over the moon that she called me “son”. I’m 43 years old! I can’t remember the last time someone called me son, though it was probably another old lady I was in danger of falling on top of.

In Scotland we have that rare facility which, like the meadow pipit, is a joy to behold at first hand; that ability to be so flippantly casual in our exchanges, but in a “I really care about whether you fall” way, rather than in the “ha, ha, look at that numpty take a tumble” way.

There is refreshing honesty that at its best measures up well against what can sometimes be the faux politesse of the French. Sure the French are supremely polite, their language demands it; but you can often be left wondering if they really care about whether you fall on your backside or not.

So although on balance I’d rather be sipping pastis and eating olives, it’s important to remember that every nation and community has an upside, however small.

Coming over all French

2009-06-01T15:57:00.006+01:00

I’ve come over all French today. The Scottish heat wave that has seen us bask for the last few days in temperatures of over 25 Celsius has turned me all continental. Yesterday, for the first time in my memory of living in Glasgow we ate breakfast, lunch and dinner outside: and by outside I don’t mean crowding under a bus shelter to scoff our fish and chips.

Indeed yesterday we had the full Provencal experience. Croissants, cool fresh juice, and freshly brewed coffee to kick off the day; a mixed salad of bountiful provisions, with warm, crusty bread and a glass of chilled rosé for lunch; and a tender fillet of salmon baked with honey, lemon and ginger (and more chilled wine) to round things off. A little stroll into the main “place au centre ville” for a digestif is all that would have been required to make it a perfect day but given the lack of convivial café’s round our neck of the woods a quick brandy on patio stood in.

I must say that I just feel better. Better that it is not raining, that the wind isn’t howling round every corner, that the sun is proud and perky in the sky. The overall effect of this weather is to lighten my temperament and make me think happy thoughts – if I were a ten year old girl I’d be dreaming of kittens and puppies.

I’ve reached a conclusion this week that while all of the other things I admire about French life are valuable and essential it is that commodity, so unpredictable in the west of Scotland, of stable mild weather that delivers the magic bullet.

It can’t surely be the heat alone, or even the Vitamin D booster (as I’ve noted in previous posts), but I think it is something more complex. It is a rich cocktail of all those things that I hold dear – for even though the weather may bring me down, I aim to live my life in as continental a manner as possible. So perhaps it is the case when the sun shines it brings all these other factors together, the glue that binds to coin a phrase.

Either way, all I know is that this beautiful Mediterranean weather has me dreaming once more of olives and pastis, and of a shady veranda in front of a typical Provencal villa where I can jot down more of these thoughts, write possibly the first great Gallo/Scots crime novel and make a modest yet comfortable living with my family around me and the pain in my joints less pronounced.

Fill her up my good man.

2009-01-14T12:49:00.001Z

In the small French Provencal village where I spent a fine fortnight some years back there is a tiny and quite fabulous wine shop. Each and every morning as I strolled au Centre Ville, en route to the boulangerie for the daily supply of freshly baked bread, I would nod politely to M. Gibet as he sat serenely outside his shop smoking one of those little cigars you get in tins whilst reading the morning paper. Beside him, lying dutifully at his feet sat Armand, as stout a poodle as you will ever have seen who's only evidence of life was the occasional yelp he made in his sleep as he dreamt, I suppose, of worrying French sheep.

Now back home, we have a strange impression of a French wine shop. Most who have never visited one would imagine it to be a fine establishment with majestically racked wines of all vintages and characteristics. A shopkeeper with a canvas apron as well would probably be high up there in the imagination. And there's no doubt that places like that do exist and very fine they are too. But M. Gibet's shop is a wonderful antidote to those chattering chardonnay classes who would have us drink only the right sort of wine at the right times and with the correct foods.

The great thing about M. Gibet's shop is that he will happily fill your empties at a fraction of the cost for the bottled article — and all he asks for is modest remuneration and that your bottles are clean (actually, I suppose all he really asks for is the money, it's up to you if you want to put fresh wine in dirty bottles). For inside his shop, its coolness enhanced by the basic render finish on the walls (very minimalist, very noughties!) lie 6 enormous plastic vats each with a small blackboard hanging from the kind of nozzle and hose affair you might see on an old fashioned petrol pump. And scribbled on each in that typical French cursive script is what serves for a label promising such transports of delight (in those glory pre-Euro days) as "Cote du Rhone, 11.5%, 12f/l" or "Cotes du Rhone 13.5%, 14f/l" and even (my personal favourite) the "Cotes du Rhone 15%, 17f/l". The signs do not even tell you if the wines are red or white – it is self evident through the translucence of the huge plastic vats.

When it comes to vintage though, it is important to remember that these are young wines. So young in fact that they are hardly out of nappies. Their vintages are measured in terms of months rather than years (ah yes, the October 1999, 15%, that was a great month!) but what they lack in maturity they make up for in youthful charm and vigour – as well as a frighteningly high alcohol content in some cases. These are wines for supping over a hearty plate of pasta; for those occasions (in our household at least) when we just want to slump down in front of the TV and not have to think, and what's more, not have to pay too much for a drink to make the programmes seem better than they actually are.

But the real beauty and pleasure comes when your bottle is down to its last drop. You don't throw it away, or set it aside for recycling in the big skip down at the supermarket sense, but simply give it a good rinse out, sterilise it if you must, then take it back along to the charming M. Gibet the following morning and say 'fill it up my good man' (along with the other dozen empties you have).

Believe me when I say life is so much simpler down there: bread is freshly bought each morning; local farmers sell their own produce at the local markets every week without fail — not for me those stupid little plastic containers with a few meagre sprigs of herbs which are strangely prevalent back here in Ecosse — and I don't have to stand in front of huge ranges of bonnes vins, trying to decide which of the 300 or so different varieties from the new world will satisfy my palette; just stick the nozzle into the bottle and pull the trigger.

St Andrews Day – ce n’est pas Bastille Day

2008-12-10T13:09:00.002Z

For those of you not in the know, Scotland entered a new phase in its long and often bloody history with the election in May 2007 of the first SNP (Scottish Nationalist) Government since devolution. A government that has as its aims independence for Scotland, thus restoring Scotland’s place in the World order and, presumably, opening up a new chapter in “the auld Alliance” between Scotland and France – suits me.

I’ll leave any general observations on the success or otherwise of this new administration to others but I do want to pick up on recent moves to establish St Andrews Day as Scotland’s National Day.

Scotland is something of an outsider in UK National Day stakes. The English celebrate St George’s Day, the Welsh have St David and the Irish (courtesy of Guinness I am advised) St Patrick. St Andrew has long been the Patron Saint of Scotland, but has never been given the honour of a public holiday like our neighbours in the Union.

The SNP Government has been seeking to right this wrong and to much literal and metaphorical flag waving announced various plans to give St Andrew his rightful place in the annual calendar, to sit alongside other impassioned celebrations of national identities like Independence Day in the USA and Bastille Day in France – our Auld Alliance comrades.

You may think so far that this sounds like an admirable plan, which when taken at face value it undoubtedly is. But scratch the surface and I fear that like many comparisons with Mediterranean life our Scottish approach lacks substance, value and credibility, which is why I continue to dream of a life of clement weather, plentiful and affordable food and wine, and a culture that better embraces the importance of family and community.

Unlike the approach to Bastille Day taken in France then, there is no sense that St Andrews Day is a festival for the people; for the population that makes Scotland what it is – flawed or otherwise. The sum total of the celebratory opportunities as far as I was able to tell included an open-air concert in Edinburgh and all Scotland’s public buildings and attractions being free of an entry fee for the day – which is fine if you have a car as most of them are in fairly rural locations. Even in the city though, hopeful visitors to Edinburgh Zoo, in the spirit of honouring Scotland and St Andrew, had to wait three hours in a four mile long tailback to get anywhere near the place.

To my – admittedly incomplete – knowledge then, there were few if any community celebrations. And this in a country of 5 million people. So whereas in France on Bastille Day every city, town, village and hamlet has a community-focussed celebration of the founding of the republic, where everyone has an opportunity to take part and enjoy the atmosphere, in much of Scotland this rather cold and damp Sunday 30 November, most of the population did their ironing for the week ahead and tuned into “I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here” as normal.

There was no public holiday, nor were there any fireworks, community dances, concerts, street parties, bull-running, cycle racing or wine tasting (apart from the usual selection of youths drinking Buckfast and Mad Dog around street corners). The day passed by almost unnoticed for the majority of the population. There was nothing in it that made me feel more Scottish. There was nothing to celebrate our turbulent past, nor set down a marker of optimism in the future. There was nothing to get me out to meet my immediate neighbours for a drink and there was nothing in the media to focus the population’s attention or secure their participation.

It seems to me that the Government’s aim for St Andrews Day is for it to be another tartan painted biscuit tin approach to marketing this ancient nation to the rest of the World, rather than using it as an opportunity to inject a bit of confidence back into a nation that has the worst health record in Europe; or to encourage a stronger sense of community responsibility for our environment and our citizens – many of whom live below the bread-line and are afflicted with jaw-dropping levels of substance misuse with little or no support.

Compared to Bastille Day, Scotland’s approach to establishing St Andrew’s Day as our national celebration has some way to go to put it politely. Give me the buzz of a village place in July any day – and that’s where you’ll find me getting my fix of community spirit, co-operation and fraternite. That’s where you’ll find me with my wife and two young children – in an atmosphere of acceptance, of celebration and pride in your country.

I can’t ever see it happening this way in Scotland, and not just because Scotland in November is a far cry from France in July; but because we have lost the very things that make Bastille Day a family oriented, community spirited festival.

St Andrews Day? Ce n’est pas Bastille Day.

Less gloom please

2008-11-24T12:52:00.004Z

It is that time of year with nights stretching out, days receding fast and the mercury falling when my thoughts turn more and more to what it must be like to live somewhere else. I confess I’ve not checked on the lighting up times in the South of France but with a ready supply of olives, wine and pastis I think I could get by a bit better than I do back here in Scotland.

The winter brings not just a chill that freezes the very marrow in my bones and makes my joints crack, but a certain gloom in my normally cheerful disposition. It is around this time of year that when I look out of the window in the late afternoon I say to myself, “Oh God, another month before the days start drawing out again”.

But it is January that brings me my deepest depression each year. For despite knowing that the days are slowly, surely drawing out by a full two minutes each day, January for some reason appears to me to be the darkest month of the year. It might be due to having had an extended break over the festive period, though you might think that would enhance my mood making me more capable of getting through the month; or it may be down to the fact that the return to work in January leaves me with the gaping chasm of a whole year stretching out in front – stuck in the same job and, worse, with no summer holiday booked.

Or – most likely – it might just be a pathetic, over-indulgent, self-pitying state of mind that I should shake off and shelf; for what can be more optimistic than a New Year. All the stresses and strains of the old year are behind you now. That gaping chasm of the New Year ahead is a blank canvas of opportunity. It is a foundation for personal and professional growth and maybe I should begin to recognise it for its potential, instead of complaining about just how dark it seems and wishing my life away for longer days and a milder climate.

Maybe I’ll take on the New Year with a new attitude this time round and see if it makes any difference. Maybe I’ll spend the holidays thinking long and hard about where I want to be and what I want to do during 2009, and perhaps when I sit down at my desk in early January it will be with a smile on my face because I will know that something great, and in my control, is just around the corner.

Maybe I’ll get to France – even if it’s just for a fortnight in July.

Please and thank you

2008-11-11T16:23:00.002Z

Although my recurring theme will be clear to readers of this blog, to date my sojourns have been limited to the family two weeks holiday a year. But even that limited exposure I have found is sufficient to expose the yawning gap in the standard of living, and just the approach to life, between us Scots and the provincial French.

Let me turn to service, manners and general politesse as the theme for this week’s column. I am sure I am not alone in remembering days gone by when, like the meadow pipit, politeness and manners were routine. People in shops smiled at you, they said hello, please and thank you. Consumers not only expected good service but members of what we now call the service industry also expected to give good service.

In France, politeness is embedded in the very language they speak. You are greeted as Monsieur/Madame in pretty much any shop you go into. People say good morning, good afternoon and wish you a good day. They use the polite form – vous – as a matter of routine, and it is indeed simply the rule. And even French builders, when they are providing excuses for why that wall is still only half finished, will take a full morning to come round to your place and sit down over a glass of wine to explain why this is so; all with that Gallic shrug that says – I sympathise and I really can’t do anything about it but it’s no reason for us to fall out is it?

When the decline in the UK set in I don’t know, but set in it undoubtedly has. It seems to me that every transaction is a favour to the consumer these days. Many shop assistants for example – not all admittedly, but a handsome proportion – do appear to have a problem with the basic description of the job itself. That somehow they are above the demands of welcoming paying customers, being polite, smiling and wishing us well on our way. I swear I have had transactions in shops when not a word has passed the lips of the assistant.

“Hang on – don’t I pay your wages”, I want to scream. But I don’t of course. I take my change, and in that manner of people who remember what it used to be like, say a clear, “thanks very much”, while engaging them in the kind of direct eye contact they’ve probably only experienced in school. They in return are too busy texting their pals under the counter to notice.

But High Street retailers are not the only place where service with a smile has long been forgotten. I recently had occasion to buy new carpets for our house. Quite a lot of new carpet actually and you’d think that a not inconsiderable order might bring out the best in people in the current financial environment.

In fairness the salesman who took our order was courteous and helpful, but thereafter our experience went the same way as our old carpets which were cut up into small pieces and taken to the dump.

Firstly an estimator “I’ve been doing this for thirty years, don’t you worry dear (he was speaking to my wife)” assured us that despite ours being an old Victorian pile, hardboard would more than adequately do the job of levelling the floor; so when the first carpet was laid and the resulting undulating landscape of 80/20 wool twist clearly not up to scratch, the fitters observed that we should have ordered plywood instead – all further progress was then halted as we got back onto our carpet pals.

When the same estimator returned to look at the hardboard effect – “I’ve been doing this for thirty years and I’ve never known a case where hardboard hasn’t done the job” – he grudgingly admitted that it didn’t look very good then refused point blank to answer any further questions as he had to “speak to the boss”.

So the saga continued by phone when our friend the estimator – “I’ve been doing this for thirty years and I still don’t know what I’m doing” – called back with an additional cost to lay plywood that would have in its own right saved HBOS from Lloyds TSB, revived the housing market and allowed the Scottish Government to abandon the council tax right away. But answering questions about how this cost was made up was not in our man’s repertoire for he again went to the most extraordinary lengths to avoid discussing anything material about our order.

At the end of the day we got our carpets laid. The man with the plywood was of course a different man from the one that laid the carpet. He took one look at the boards and said he lays ply all the time on floors like that. I won’t repeat what he said about the estimator, although apparently he’s been like that for thirty years.

So where does this leave the consumer, whether you are buying a newspaper or a carpet. Are sales assistants so de-motivated that they can’t even be bothered to offer the most basic kindnesses? Do retail managers not care about how this looks to customers? How hard is it to actually say please and thank you (I should say at this late juncture that many customers ought to consider this question too)? And how much easier all our lives would be if things went right the first time; why should we all be made to put more effort into recovering from a situation that should not have arisen in the first place?

So back to France. Give me Monsieur and a bon journee any day. Give me a a “C’est moi qui vous remercie” and let s all get tiled floors so we never have to buy carpets again.

I knew I was right!

2008-09-15T16:42:00.003+01:00

I’m delighted to now have scientific support for my cravings for sunshine and a generally milder climate. Let’s hear it all round for Dr Oliver Gillie, someone whom I’ve only been able to identify as a “science researcher and writer”, and who has called for "urgent action" by the Scottish Government to tackle the lack of sunshine. He has already, I am led to understand, pressed the Government to help Scotland’s climate catch-up with those experienced in the Mediterranean zone.

Let me be the first to volunteer for the innovative “South of France Re-location Programme” I feel sure the Scottish Government is going to announce any day now (I’ve already submitted a proposal to the First Minister and The Cabinet Secretary for Health and Wellbeing outlining my living costs and personal needs).

Commenting on his report, he said: "Scotland has an extreme climate characterised by very little sunshine - it gets as little sunshine as some places in the Arctic Circle.”

Hooray! At last! Someone has confirmed what I knew all along; which takes me to my point.

Now don’t get me wrong, I like what this man has to say. He has brought a serious issue to debate in the public forum. But along with research studies that point out that people who eat chips four times or more a week have a poorer chance of running a marathon, this is research that states the bloomin’ obvious.

Even when I was less affected by it, I’ve always known Scotland has worse weather than many other parts of the world. And as I’ve grown older, I’ve come to appreciate just how valuable those few rays of sunshine are, and just how bad some people feel in the depths of winter when we’ve had ten straight days of rain, and only a few meagre hours of what passes for daylight. And I count myself amongst those people.

But I do believe that this is only part of a more complex analysis. Sure it would be great to have a more Mediterranean climate alone. I for one would jump at the chance to compose these thoughts from the veranda of a modest but comfortable villa somewhere in the South of France. But I believe that Scotland’s wider ills are as much to do with society as meteorology.

The continental lifestyle takes the passing of time at a different pace. It places more value on the things that I believe we have lost as a society: family ties, community spirit; and a good long lunch hour. Simple things and simple pleasures have more meaning to more people. Visitors to France are bemused by the seemingly endless fetes and celebrations held across every city, town, village and hamlet to celebrate things a grand as Bastille Day and as modest as the 50th anniversary of the opening of the local swimming pool (honestly!).

What this does is ensure that the community is pulled along with common purpose. It ensures there are no strangers amongst our neighbours, and it helps build something that is greater than the sum of the parts from the individual contributions we can all make.

By all means then, let’s try to do something about the climate; subsidise the cost of sunshine lamps; or give everyone an injection of vitamin D to get through the winter months. Move to France if you like, and think you can make a living of some sort there (I remain open to all reasonable offers), but if we do neither of these things, our communities can come together in a spirit of greater co-operation and ambition to help those less fortunate than us, and breath some new life and vitality into our country.

Merde alors!

2008-09-10T12:46:00.002+01:00

Holy sh*t! What is it about dogs; or more specifically their owners? The French have dogs. The French love dogs. Anywhere you go in France you’ll come across a dog. What you don’t come up against quite so often is dog mess. They care for their dogs and make them use those strange hole in the floor toilets you don’t see so much of anymore in France (ok I made that last bit up).

The point I want to make though is that dogs are all well and good. They are man’s best friend, provide companionship for little old ladies and are fashion accessories to celebrities across the world; if someone mentions Paris Hilton, you automatically think “dog”.

But by virtue of being one of our living creatures’ means they also have needs. Some of these needs don’t interfere with my life very much. I don’t really know any dog owners so never have to shake one off my leg for example when it chooses to get a little fruity. But their digestive and waste management systems do bother me. They bother me specifically when taking my kids to school and I have to negotiate the pavement slalom of steaming residue left by inconsiderate and frankly pig ignorant dog owners.

My Dad wasn’t a great fan of dogs in his lifetime. “I’d shoot the lot of them!” he’d say. Frequently. He used to hold up his walking stick to his shoulder aiming carefully down its shaft, and fire imaginary bullets at all those he saw walking through the park across from his little flat. Now I have to say that while this may be a little extreme, I understand what it was that bothered him. He didn’t mind dogs really. He owned many dogs in his time, but if you’re going to take responsibility for one, then you have to take responsibility for the mess it leaves.

Dog mess is disgusting. It stinks. It is a public health hazard and nobody likes to have to scrape it from those little grooves in their trainers with a toothpick. And if it’s not bad enough that owners don’t clear it up, the local authority does nothing to either incentivise or force people to do this, nor do they come and clean it up when it becomes evident nobody else is going to.

In Paris they have professional pooper scoopers, riding around the city on mopeds taking care of the leftovers from careless and inconsiderate owners. Extreme? Perhaps so, and equally saddening that it is necessary. But while more people look after their mess in France, others take responsibility for those who abdicate theirs – maintaining a clean environment for us all.

Un billet simple et retour

2008-09-09T14:12:00.001+01:00

I recently had occasion to travel by train from Glasgow to Carlisle and back – a reasonably short distance and a journey time of about an hour and 20 minutes, and I have to report a reasonably comfortable train. I now it isn’t like me to start with such a positive outlook, but credit where credit is due I say.

No, the particular irritant in this journey was found in the booking office of Glasgow Central Station – a magnificent old place standing in memory of a reliable and affordable UK-wide rail network.

Picture this if you will (for we are about to enter The Twilight Zone)…wallet in hand I wait a modest few minutes for a teller to become vacant. On hearing the request to approach window number four, I move on over and ask, politely I thought, for a return ticket to Carlisle. £44.50 replied the teller, without so much as a hello, good afternoon or please.

Thinking this a little on the pricey side, and being slightly deaf as a result of persistent sinusitis brought on by this damp, northern climate, I repeated this figure with a quizzical look, and “really?” appended for good measure. All good natured stuff I thought.

“That’s what I said,” replied the teller.

Taken aback by this response, and caught somewhat off guard, I muttered something about having checked on the web and it was much cheaper. My new copine lightened opened up a bit at this point and informed me that this was the price of a cheap day return. But then she became positively engaged in my simple request to get to Carlisle and back as cheaply as possible.

“When are you coming back?” she asked me, though still a little haughtily.

“Tomorrow evening, on the 7.10 from Carlisle,” I said.

“You’d be better off buying two standard singles then, they’re £16 each.”

Now I don’t claim to be a mathematical genius, but it does strike me that you would be better off buying two standard singles regardless of when you were coming back, saving yourself £10 in the process which makes me wonder just how they arrived at the cost of a standard return in the first place.

This is just one example of why the rail network is on its knees in the UK. Another is that if you are travelling from Glasgow to Dundee, then it is cheaper to buy a ticket from Glasgow to Perth and then one from Perth to Dundee, than get a straight through ticket. Add this to the state of the track and rolling stock and you have the UK rail network.

Give me SNCF and even better TGV any day. It’s more reliable, cheaper, and easier to use, and they serve better coffee.

Le monde, ce qui passe?

2008-09-08T15:51:00.004+01:00

I swear the world is going mad. And I don’t think it’s just me – though that is a possibility I should never rule out. My journey to work each morning consists of taking the autobus, after having walked the kids to school. My feelings on the quality of this often maligned form of transport will have to wait for another time and so for the purposes of this piece let us assume the journey itself is fine – helped along in its passing by just enough time to read through Metro, the free newspaper taking over the world.

Now I’m a broadsheet man myself generally but Metro, to give it credit, has just enough in it to distract me as I face the short journey to work and the long day ahead. It’s full of light hearted stuff, environmentally sound in that most of the items seem to be re-cycled from other papers, and it’s got a good listings section.

It also has a particular feature called “60 Second Interview” which is where…oh you get the idea, I’m sure I don’t need to spell it out for you. Today a particularly frisky young sort was featured, Jessica Sutta from the popular beat combo “The Pussycat Dolls”; a group that my younger colleagues assure me have superlative musical talent and an attractive wardrobe.

Reading on then, I found out that The Pussycat Dolls have had dolls of themselves banned in the USA for being too provocative (dolls?). They sing a song about wanting to have groupies, but, Jessica assures, “It’s just a fun lyric. Our groupies are all pre-teen girls.” Now hang on a minute and let’s just review this; they sing a song about wanting groupies, fans to have sex with on a casual basis. But it’s only a “fun lyric”, perhaps in the same way that people who make jokes about disabled, gay or black people don’t really mean anything by it. But then she reckons all their groupies are pre-teens – and this coming only a couple of weeks after Gary Glitter’s return to the UK.

Why are these kinds of moronic reflections tolerated? Has our society fallen to an all new low where a girl who sings and dances in her underwear can proclaim in a national newspaper that frequent casual sex is OK and, more worryingly, associate this thought process and their public behaviour with pre-teens?

Anyway that’s the puritan in me, probably driven by my family’s heavy ancestry in the Quaker movement (true as it happens). But this girl continues to amaze and redefine the meaning of moron, albeit in a less tawdry way. Apparently the band has a stylist, and their doing very “innovative” things with – wait for it – their nails. Goodness, how that is going to affect the credit crunch, world poverty and oppression of the people by fascist regimes.

Finally, and to cap it all for I can’t go on much longer without frothing at the mouth, she gets her Tarot Cards read. Apparently she sees this amazing psychic who tells her what’s going to happen! Yeees, that’s the definition of a psychic. She told her not to run in high heels in the rain. Nothing wrong with that advice, but it’s hardly predictive is it? It’s just good old fashioned common sense – something that Ms Sutta seems completely devoid of.

But hey, where does this leave me in my desire to move south; to sell up the ancestral pile to forage a living in a better place? Well it’s exactly this sort of thing that makes my blood boil. That the world is full of idiots is not a surprise – the law of averages means that they’re going to be out there. What I object to is the elevation of these idiots in our society to positions of influence.

I even know and accept that there are idiots in France, but I never get the feeling that idiots are tolerated in the public eye quite as much as they are here; I’m not convinced, for example, that Jade Goody would have been able to forge quite so successful a career in France as she has in the UK out of being ignorant.

Either way, the sun-drenched veranda is still calling me as I sit here in the tail end of the wettest summer on record.

le mauvais temps

2008-09-05T16:18:00.001+01:00

The wettest summer on record. Need I say more.

Le Printemps est arrivee

2007-04-18T14:17:00.000+01:00

So here we are then. Spring. The sky is blue, grass is green, the little bird is on the wing (I always thought the wing was on the bird but hey, voila!).

What has been all the more remarkable, given that this is Scotland in April, is that we have been truly blessed with a Spring like one from our childhood memories. Never mind the gooey sentiments of an optomistic ryhme, the sky really has been blue and the grass greener than a billard table.

The sunshine and unseasonally warm temperatures have not just brought out the insects much earlier than normal - bloody wasps - but brought out the optimists in us all. I for one have been waking up and instead of creaking and groaning like the animated statue in Jason and the Argonauts have been rising with more enthusiasm than it is right to have at this time of year. I've got a lighter step and less of a hunch against the chill winds and rain I normally associate with this time of year and a general air of relief that the dark winter days are behind me for a few months at least.

What it also has done is re-kindle thoughts of relocation and of continuing my days in more permanently sunnier climes - for example in the south of France (it is the subject of this blog after all). There have been a number of reasons why it has come back to the forefront of my mind recently, quite aside from enjoying the greater clemency. Glasgow has introduced a new scheme called "Cleaner Glasgow" or somesuch trite project title thought up by a marketing whizz. The reason for this is that Glasgow has become blighted by litter, and after spending millions of pounds on fancy public realm projects to smarten the place up a bit somebody somewhere has realised that what we are left with are the same old litter louts, vandals and hooligans who think nothing of throwing away anything from a crisp packet or chip wrapper, to empty bottles, clothing, and furniture.

Now I'm long enough in the tooth to understand that litter is a worldwide problem but where is the civic pride? Where is the community spirit that used to see grocers sweep the portion of the pavement in front of their shop? And where the hell are the bins? I'm not talking about the city centre where in fairness there seems to be an ample sufficiency, but in the more remote arrondissements, and especially where I live they are as rare as dents de poulet.

Here is the thing. There is a bus stop close to my house. From the bus stop every morning pour hundreds of the nations future on their way to school to learn whatever scraps of useful information the education system in this country has deemed it necessary to actually insist on. Of course few of these enfants have had anything like a good breakfast in them and so they head to the bakers for a roulade de saucisson (or whatever - you know what I mean). On their way to school and en passant chez moi they discard the wrappers and whatever remains of the greasy sludge they have been eating in my front garden or along the pavement leaving a trail that Hansel and Gretel would be proud of. Now allowing for the fact that they might not actually bother if they were available, it is noteworthy to observe that there is only a single bin along this 600 metre stretch to cater for the litter needs of an entire secondary school. Now I'm no expert on litter, but this seems a little on the light side given the environment.

The council also said they were mobilising hit squads to monitor problem areas and hand out fixed penalty notices to offenders they catch, using all the latest digital camera technologfy of course. Sadly the hit squads seem to about as rare a sight as the bins all the fixed penalties could arguably pay for. I give in! I truly do.

The other significant event that has caused me to think harder about a life elsewhere was a visit from my old friend Mike who 18 months ago reached his very own mid-life crisis and moved to Bangkok. A bit extreme you might say but in short he is now as happy as a sand boy and has observed that all the things that annoyed him about the UK and Glasgow in particular do not exisit in Thailand. Okay so he's lived through a military coup, corruption is rife and poverty pretty harsh in someplaces, but what it does have is a kind of old fashioned respect for others, elders and betters. There are no neds to cause the litter and graffitti and even those young Thais that aim to emulate their western heros are clean cut honourable people under whatever image they are wearing.

So I am not sure where that leaves me. Slightly disatisfied now that the weather is turning. France I know has issues with louts, graffitti and litter, but it retains a lot of the family and community spirit that is now comletely lost here. I keep dreaming my dream and maybe one day something will make me click and help me take the plunge. Until then, I'll have to satisfy myself with a glass of kir and dish of olives in my back garden.

Les mauvais supermarches

2005-04-06T16:29:00.000+01:00

There are now so many things about living in this country that annoy me I am sometimes at a loss as to where to begin my column. This has an unfortunate effect in that it has sadly lain idle for the best part of a year. I hope, given my increasing levels of bile and general grumpiness that I assume to be not absolutely disconnected to my advancing years, to be a little more diligent in bringing you more frequent thoughts and philosophies in future. And who knows, maybe ultimately somebody will take pity on me and my family and send me away to write regular updates from a sunny veranda somewhere in the south of France.

Of most pressing distress to my composure recently is the ever increasing influence of the major supermarket chains on our diet and eating habits, and the hugely wasteful nature of much of the packaging that goes into the synthetic homogenised muck they peddle. Let’s take the fresh fruit and vegetable section as a prime example. Here is an area where nature in her glory has provided bountiful produce; wholesome, nourishing and damn tasty – and all neatly wrapped in its own little protective coating ready for us eager consumers to simply wash or peel away.

It would seem the most obvious idea in the word then to simply lay out the stall, and allow customers to help themselves to exactly the number of potatoes, carrots or asparagus spears they need. As a consumer I don’t find this concept difficult, nor do I object to being asked to do the work traditionally done by shopkeepers in years gone by (hey – I can move with the times too you know). But if it’s not bad enough that from the free choices we are able to make we must use these damn plastic bags, we are more and more often forced into purchasing exactly 454 grams of carrots when all we need is two (carrots that is, not grams).

Of even greater annoyance however, is the single most wasteful and pointless packaging that is the shrink-wrapping of individual peppers – be they green, red, yellow or orange – and turnips (now there’s a word very useful when writing a piece about supermarket management). Now please excuse me but I must resort to profanity here – who the fuck came up with this idea and thought it a good one? Is it not bad enough that all our peppers look the same? Is it not bad enough that most are grown in some kind of hydroponic and artificial atmosphere? Clearly not, for somewhere along the supply chain an individual made a decision to shrink wrap these little containers of goodness because it was clearly far too risky to leave it to chance at the checkout where some spotty adolescent who would much rather be drinking cider down at the graveyard might mistake a green capsicum for an avocado.

Passing through this haven of nature however to the other aisles and I am increasingly incredulous at the sheer volume of fizzy, sugary water the supermarkets flog and we seem to lap up. Is it any wonder that dental health in this country is in the state it is. Who on earth really needs to buy six, two litre bottles of cola a week? Turn on a tap if you’re thirsty for goodness sake. You’ll keep your teeth and your skin will be better.

What further amazes me though beyond the state of the vegetable garden and the EU sugary drink lake that we seem to be single handedly disposing of in the UK, is the singular lack of ingredients on the shelves. Does nobody cook any more? We seem to have more celebrity-endorsed TV programmes than ever before, highlighting the joys and benefits of cooking natural, nutritious and tasty meals from ingredients, but there seem few of us willing to take our interest out of the living room and into the kitchen. What it seems to me happens, is that the supermarkets peddle this vast range of ready made meals that we all slam in the microwave then munch directly out of the plastic tray with disposable cutlery all while watching that young tyke Jamie Oliver extol the virtues of good wholesome cooking – and frankly showing how damn easy it is whether you like the cheeky chap or not.

My experience in France (and other Mediterranean countries for that matter) displays a far more respectful attitude to food. Most significantly almost every town and city has a fresh produce market at least once, if not twice, a week. At these markets you can poke and prod the goods, feel them, smell them and buy just exactly how many of whatever you’d like. The vegetables come complete with genuine dirt, and there are artisan grocers who specialise in selling single items like the men who arrive with van loads of garlic strings!

Even at these open air festivals of food, you can sample wonderful cheeses, cooked meats, and drinks and to be honest you could easily do all your grocery shopping in these places. And don’t be under any misapprehension that it is only the provincial towns and villages that have these wonderful scenes. Paris for example, that greatest of metropolitan cities, has wonderful street markets offering a bewildering choice of produce.

And the respect for food does not end with the street vendors – even the supermarkets in France seem to have more respect for what we put inside ourselves. Homogeneity is something uncommon rather than the norm, local produce is sold in local supermarkets, and perhaps most importantly, the cheese they sell isn’t wrapped in cling film which makes even the mildest of cheeses sweat uncomfortably.

Let’s face it, it’s just better. We need to take a long hard look at how we live here. It’s getting worse and we’re in danger of becoming a nation of morbid obesity and bland palates. Let’s celebrate food, and let’s return to what it seems a lot of us view as a slightly quirky lifestyle where people sat down together to eat food made from ingredients.

Le bus

2005-04-01T15:40:00.000+01:00

It’s a sharp, cold day in March. “In like a lion, out like a lamb” my Mum used to say. Still does in fact, she said it last night when I spoke to her on the phone. As an epithet it offers us hope that spring is only just around the corner. As a fact it means that it’s damn cold, the streets and pavements are covered in rock salt that makes my shoes go all white and crusty, and my lips are permanently chapped and cracked.

Adding to my woes is the dreadful state of public transport these days where a safe, reliable, convenient and affordable bus service seems to have gone the same way as the Meadow Pippit. What exactly is the problem with the UK and public transport? I simply cannot fathom why we have consistently as both a country of nations and a United Kingdom we have failed to get this sorted once and for all.

What exactly is the problem? Provide and enforce clearways for buses. Make them cheap, regular, clean and comfortable. Err, that would seem to be it wouldn’t it?

Having spent an enjoyable long weekend in Paris recently I speak as someone with recent memories of a transport system that works for and with the inhabitants of a large metropolitan city. The operation of the Metro, the RER and the various bus lines provides a complex yet understandable and logical matrix of transport possibilities beyond the sophistication of anything I have yet to come across in the UK. Fares are integrated, transfer is easy and you can use mobile phones on the tube – what gives?

Of course none of this comes without a price. But whereas the French authorities believe that a publicly supported integrated transport system brings with it economic, social and environmental benefits, we are still battling with conglomerates at one end of the spectrum in an open and privatised transport policy framework to one-man businesses stealing what little business they can from the dominant companies by running their tired and dreary mini-buses into the ground.

There seems to be a dramatic lack of imagination and indeed drive (if you’ll excuse the pun) that goes into supporting the transport services directly, but more significantly is the unfathomable lack of vision that would provide for a truly open and accessible transport infrastructure. What I mean is let’s not just make it less and less attractive to take the car, so that somehow getting the bus becomes the lesser of two evils, let’s instead make it a genuinely more attractive option to use public transport. It should be naturally more convenient, more reliable and cheaper than other options available. Different forms of pubic transport should integrate seamlessly and for pity’s sake, when will we stop having to pay our fairs to the bus driver and instead pre-purchase commonly exchangeable travel tokens like in almost any other European city.

I’m also impressed that in France, public transport serves a single function; it gets people from one place to the next. They are not smoking dens. They are not nightclubs, nor are they video-jukeboxes. I had the misfortune only this morning to travel into the centre of Glasgow on a bus equipped with a video screen and speakers. For the entire 30 minute journey (which would only take 20 if the route was properly managed) I endured inane advertising features, film trailers and music videos from a bygone age (presumably cheaper than showing those from any of the currently popular beat combos). Having done some research into this matter I can advise you that these screens are intended to distract the local Neds (Chavs for those south of the Scottish border) from vandalising the bus. Whatever happened to policing?

Frankly on this experience I despair for the future of public transport in this country. France has bravely taken the opportunity to serve its people with a transport infrastructure served by policy that genuinely takes account of needs. It allows people to move freely and comfortably. It challenges accepted models of service and allows for genuine innovation (TGV anyone) and what’s more it’s better for us all. Fewer cars, cleaner air, better cities. And in many cases you can buy travel tickets at bars – now how cool is that.

Le flu'

2004-02-25T20:43:00.000Z

I have the 'flu! Now don't try to make me feel better by saying how sure you are that it is just a cold - the technicality of it doesn't matter a hoot to me. I feel terrible. For the last few days pain and misery have been my companion. By actually writing this piece I am further sacrificing my health because staring at the computer screen makes my eyes go all wobbly and puffy. But what the hell - nothing else but to crack on.

I am convinced that I would not fall foul of these nasty winter ailments if I were to live in the south of France, where in the depths of winter the climate is rather more springlike than anything else. The sunshine, I just know, would purge my body of every last toxin whilst the fresh local produce, bought from the marketplace and picked from le Monsieur's field that very morning, would stoke my body with every vitamin and mineral necessary for a healthy lifestyle. And I do not think we should ever underestimate the potential health benefits of a reliable and inexpensive supply of red wine, olives and pastis.

With due deference to the boffins, it has been scientifically proven that red wine, when taken in due moderation of course, can prevent heart disease. Coming from Scotland, the heart disease capital of the universe, this is a great relief to me. I may die a ravaged old alcoholic but the old ticker will keep going long after my liver has worn out. And olives from whence comes olive oil, natures great lubricant. If you want to be privy to the secret of a healthy Mediterranean complexion and wish to stop your knees cracking when you get up in the morning - well get some extra virgin into you.

My research, however, has been unable to identify any health giving properties of pastis. Suffice to say that it is a tasty, aromatic drink and you know what they say - a little bit of what you fancy does you good! And it tastes great with a nice dish of mixed olives so tuck in.

The reality of my current state though is that the good old horse doctor has prescribed me a dose of antibiotics - oh quelle suprise. My throat is so sore that I cannot swallow water, let alone wine or pastis, and I have no appetite for porridge let alone a selection of delicate olives. I have, it's true, succumbed to my illness.

I am not, you will have gathered, a good patient. I am demanding and feel exceptionally sorry for myself. I believe that the germs of the World have chosen me as their host. (This could make a good plot for a sci-fi thriller couldn't it? Hmm, a novel eh?) And I am one of these foolish men who cries for their mother to mop their fevered brow - at least I am this time round because my loving wife has gone to Dublin for the weekend with her chums from work, leaving me alone to fight the miseries.

My mother would be appalled. She tends to regard infections or ailments of any sort on your own incompetence and negligence. She called me just the other night to ask how I was doing and I made rather a song and dance about being at death's door and all that (well I thought it was funny). Her reaction? Sympathy? Pity? Concern? Well she's my mum so I did get all that but I also got a lengthy lecture on the need to wrap up warmly, especially when coming out of air conditioned offices and to always but always button up my overcoat properly and wear a hat.

Those readers with a similarly pre-occupied mother will appreciate that any protestations of mine to the effect that I do button up my coat and do wear a hat are met with a few choice words like, 'yes but by the time you button up your coat it's too late and that hat, well, you could spit peas through it!'. Argument is, of course, useless.....

Me....'But mum, Agent Mulder never buttons up his overcoat, never wears a hat and he seems pretty healthy!'

Mum...'But that's America and it's only TV anyway. Now, are you wearing that vest I bought you for Christmas?'

Me....'Yes Mum.'

It doesn't just end there though. I have to go through a complete inventory of my cold weather gear. None of which is suitable. My dear old Mum informs me that I need to get some new gloves, good woollen ones. And those cotton socks? No good! Get a good thick pair of woollen ones. (Are you beginning to get a picture here?) And whilst we're at it, that overcoat is no good (Aha, I've got her here - but Mum, it's made of wool I cry triumphantly). Doesn't matter, she replies, you want a nice thick anorak, preferably with storm cuffs and a nice warm lined hood.

I am beginning to develop an evolutionary theory all of my own from all this informal research. Nerds, computer, train or whatever type are just ordinary people who actually do everything that their mothers tell them. They do not question her logic or authority. Seems like a pretty sound theory to me.

Now down in the south of France, I've never seen a computer nerd. Or any other sort for that matter. And do you want to know why? Well I'll tell you anyway. Good weather. You see if anyone does come down with something there, it cannot be attributed to not buttoning up your coat, or wearing the wrong kind of socks. No, indeed the French accept that if you come down with something, then you just need to get on with curing it in whatever way suits you.

Now where's that bottle?

Drink Beer, It's Fun!

2004-01-25T21:14:00.000Z

A while back, I shared with the nation my yearning for less work, better weather and a reliable and inexpensive supply of olives, pastis and red wine; all served to me in the charmingly simple way of a provencal patron. Well the weather's been much the same as it always is this time of year and I'm still putting in those full days down at the farm - figuratively speaking that is. And have you seen the price of Pernod down at Oddbins these days? Though they do a nice line in sweet black olives with chillies these days - dead nippy as my 4 year old nephew would say!

The truth is, I am now beginning to accept that it is not easy to change a lifestyle which has grown out of the Presbyterian work ethic. Mortality may still be a cheap price to pay for existence, but wouldn't it be great if you could fund the whole enterprise with a little less effort. In fact during the short days and long dark nights, as my seasonal affective disorder kicks in, the only thing which keeps me going has the downfall of the working man for many years - beer.

I think beer is a truly wonderful drink. High in fibre and calories, I am convinced that it is actually good for you despite what the critics and puritans say. It is, after all, a fine natural product: if you ignore all the nasty factory produced muck which sadly floods the market. With this in mind, I count myself fortunate that temperence is not, and has never been, one of my virtues. I count myself doubly fortunate in living within five minutes walking time of many fine ale houses - one of which, The Three Judges, is regularly voted 'Pub of the year' by my local branch of CAMRA. And I am truly spoiled in having a fine supplier of carry-out pakora situated conveniently between the pub and my house.

Archeologists tell us that beer has been brewed for as long as men have wanted to go out and get pissed. They have discovered that the ancient Egyptians made a heady brew, though the rumour that pictograms discovered on tomb walls represent stills from Egyptians Behaving Badly are sadly mistaken. So complete in fact has been the residue from Egyptian beer discovered in tombs that a replica ale can now be bought - and who says history is boring.

One of the other great things about beer is that it can be both a solitary and group pass-time. Now before all you harpies start jumping to the conclusion that I am some sort of sad lonely individual who keeps his thoughts company with pint after pint, I'm talking about taking a good book down to the pub and having no more than a couple of glasses and a damn good read. It is all together a far less intensive type of session than the group sport practised by formation drinking teams the country over.

Indeed, for without the aid of a safety net and deprived of the benefits of nose-clips and shower caps teams of drinkers spend every weekend refining their art and competing with some of the finest imbibers in the country in some of the most competitive venues known. The Prize? Why death or glory. Although this is not death as we have come to know it (you know DEATH). It is rather the kind of death which is cured the following morning with a can of Irn Bru (God bless you Mr. Barr) and two Nurofen.

The glory side of it - as best I can recall of these dark distant days - is best accomplished down at your local night club. A few drinks to limber up, then some traditional bar exercises. You know the ones - you and your mates stand at 90 degrees to the bar. With a pint in your right hand you rest your elbow on the bar (usually in a small puddle of sticky liquid) and, in seamless unison you all say, 'Ooh, I don't fancy yours much, hahahahahahaha!'

Now that you are suitably flexible, you decide that a short walk is in order. A short walk to the middle of the dance floor that is. You ask that girl you've been eyeing for a dance (she's currently dancing with her friend of course). 'Excuse me, would you like to dance?', you shout through the racket. She looks back at you as if you had asked her to lance a boil on your buttock and suck out the puss. Undaunted, you ask again. She shrugs her shoulders and looks at her friend with an expression which says, 'Why don't you go to the bar and con his pals out of a couple of Bacardi and cokes whilst I dance with this loser?'

You are, of course, completely oblivious to this little vignette because ever since she shrugged her acceptance of your irresistible dance offer you have been peering back at your mates, grinning like the village idiot and holding both thumbs aloft like Paul McCartney had never thought of it. You dance the distant frug that people do at these places and all hopes of striking up an intimate conversation are thwarted by snoop doggy whatever his name is comin' at ya at 120 decibels.

Glory indeed. Isn't beer wonderful. Needless to say, this wouldn't happen in the south of France because people there still talk to one another. Even the sullen teenagers have an openness about them which should be the envy of everybody here (it isn't, of course). The pecks on the cheeks and the firm handshakes which permeate French society are the backbone of a truly friendly nation. So when I do get there, and get to know my local provencal patron, every time I order a drink from him I shall warmly shakes his hand and peck both cheeks in gratitude for just being there to serve me and talk with me.

Due South

2004-01-14T19:34:00.000Z

During the past few years of my working life I have been, and still am, largely motivated by money. As a child I would scrimp and save and spend many happy evenings counting my accumulated stash. I remember though, at the age of about 7 or 8, reaching the princely sum of £3.50 or so and blowing the lot on a new motor for my lego train set. This unfortunately set the save/spend pattern for my later life; a habit that I have tried, and failed to shake off.

Not that I want to pass my days bathing in pools of crisp bank notes (of particularly large denominations naturally). I would however, like to be in better control of my finances and feel less inclined to blow any accumulated savings I may have on curry and beer.

What I do want though, eventually, is to have sufficient financial independence to be able to follow my calling to move to the South of France and do, more or less, nothing too much for the rest of my natural born days other than spend time with my wife, read a bit, write a bit, listen to some music and play my guitar a bit - maybe even have some friends round from time to time (remembering though my dear old Grandmother saying to me that both fish and guests begin to stink after three days).

Now I don't actually think I am asking for too much. I do not, after all, wish to become state dependent, whether it is this island state or that mainland state. All I ask is a modest means to earn a living, better weather and a reliable and inexpensive supply of olives, pastis and red wine; all served to me in the charmingly simple way of a provencal patron.

This seemingly simple goal is harder than you might imagine to achieve. Oh I know that there are people who just pack everything in and buy a one way ticket for the ferry, but in my mind, in order to make this move I must actually be able to support myself and my wife; and as things stand, I can hardly support a fence post in a light breeze with some help from several strong friends.

So there you have it in a nutshell. Despite my best efforts to "put a few bob by", I remain as broke today as I was when I started working all those years ago. I think I must suffer from an undiagnosed kind of incontinence with money.

But please don't think I have become depressed by this apparent lack of progress in achieving my ambition; for despite my complete lack of anything resembling a pot of gold I am happier now than I have ever been. What's that? 'Quality of life dear boy!', I hear the smarter ones saying through mouths stuffed full of coffee and croissants. Even the more cynical amongst you will be saying 'Aye, you have to have a dream to keep you going'. And I freely admit that both seem to be true in many ways.

Certainly in the last few years, both my life, and attitude to it, has changed dramatically for the better. I have married a woman I love, and who loves me back. I have my own flat more or less in the place I always wanted one. And I even get paid for doing a day's work which, more often than not, I quite enjoy.

'So what the bloody hell are you complaining about?', I can now hear both sides of the camp say.

Well, I'm not really complaining because I'm pretty much content with things as they are. Not because of what I do to keep myself financially afloat in a sea of debt, but because I enjoy the rest of the time I have to myself, and the time I share with others I care about. I believe in working for a living but also subscribe more to the "work to live" school of thought rather than the "live to work" ethic which so often prevails in today's competitive job market. Having said that, I also believe in getting paid as much as possible so that you can work less and less and do all the other things you enjoy more and more.

So where does this leave me and my yearning for Mediterranean sunshine? To be honest I'm not sure; perhaps those that say you have to have a dream to keep yourself going are right enough. Then again, what use is having a dream if you don't make any effort to achieve it, otherwise the autoroute du soleil would be littered with shattered dreams.

If you want my advice, do everything in your power to do what you want. Take French lessons, buy a French car, drink French wine (this is especially important as it helps to blur the harsh reality that you are drinking it in the comfort of your English speaking garret whilst looking at the rain stream down your window), eat French cheese and anything else which comes to mind which will either francophile you or raise money for MtF (Move to France) day.

Anything that is except write a an irregular blog that probably nobody will ever read because that is my chosen route, and I'm rather hoping that after a year or so of these thoughts my someone will help me realize my calling and will pay me to actually move there to write a Provencal diary. That would suit me fine; nothing fancy, a small cottage, with a couple of bedrooms and a sunny veranda and a reliable and inexpensive supply of olives, pastis and red wine; all served to me in the charmingly simple way of a provencal patron.

Who am I? I’m a nearly forty company director who is constantly asking himself, 'why must I work?'.

Mal de detoxification

2004-01-12T10:22:00.002Z

I know I’m not the only one to suffer, but January sees me enter a particularly dark depression that takes me weeks to come out of. Even though the nights are drawing out once more, January seems darker and more melancholy than other months of the year, the combined result perhaps of the long slog from the distant memory of the summer holiday into winter, and the excess of the festive period. I hate it with a passion: it’s cold and wet, and dark more than it’s light.

As I struggle on, I convince myself that I need to rid my body of all the toxins that have built up over Christmas and New Year even though I’m not completely convinced that this latest fad isn’t just the invention of all the companies that peddle their products to help with this process.

My own particular take on detoxification, which I recommend wholeheartedly, involves a simple regime of restricting coffee intake to just one cup in the morning, with breakfast., drinking more water than I normally do, and keeping alcohol consumption down to just two or three units a day. Occasionally, I do take a cup of coffee later in the day as well, but hey, so what.

In other words, I haven’t really changed my lifestyle at all, and while my friends are all on various combinations of cabbage soup, hi-carb, hi-protein, water and fruit, raw vegetables, green tea or goodness knows what else, I have carried on regardless. They all look and feel terrible, whilst I on the other hand, well, I look no different at all and frankly feel no different either. The reason for this, I am convinced, is that the main drivers behind my lifestyle do not come from my diet but from the fact I run around like the proverbial blue-arsed fly from morning until night. Frankly, if I didn’t drink all that coffee, wine and beer I’d be a lot worse off.

Now from my knowledge of life in France, I’d guess that detoxification is a phrase most probably restricted to chemical and waste processing use. The idea that the human body might need help to remove toxins normally pretty effectively dealt with in the regular way would be anathema to most French people – although given their predilection for suppositories it could be an enema to them (oh dear!).

Life in France has continued pretty effectively for years on their diet of meat, fish, wine and brandy, not to mention rich butter pastries, white bread and several hundred varieties of cheese and other diary products. It is not uncommon for people on their way to work in the morning to visit their local café and order a coffee and a brandy – un café cognac – a million miles from the sickly milky mess most people here get from their local Starbucks.

What they are also very good at is lunch. I know plenty of people, me included, who while away their lunch hour (now there’s an oxymoron if ever I wrote one) at their desk, grabbing a hurried sandwich, a chocolate bar, some crisps and juice – all that sort of thing, all the while sifting through e-mail or reading papers and getting crumbs in the keyboard. This is such a common phenomenon that it has a term – eating al desko.

This of courses forces the question. Who the hell thinks this is such a great idea that it deserves recognition? Honestly, is this such a healthy society that it obsesses about detoxing the body, but fails to consider the effects that actually not taking a proper break and eating a decent lunch can have on your wider health and vitality.

And even if the practise is declining somewhat, France, and to be honest many other Mediterranean countries, has survived perfectly well with a regular two hour lunch break in the middle of the day when all decent working citizens switch off and sit down with their friends, or go home to their families for a square meal and some quality time.

This practise is so much part of the culture that even parking charges are lifted between 12 and 2 each day – how cool is that. But what’s is more impressive is the life that buzzes through each and every café, restaurant and open space in France during that time. To people from the west coast of Scotland it must seem like a carnival every day, but to the native inhabitants it’s just what they do. It’s normal life and they seem just fine about it.

Our whole culture seems to have turned it’s priorities on its head. We are asked to work more and more within more demanding environments. We are not asked, but there is one argument that suggests we are expected to work through our permitted breaks. What we do eat at lunchtime is hastily consumed without any discussion or social interaction with friends or colleagues let alone family. We are selling ourselves short with this practise.

Take me to France any day. I guarantee I’ll work just as hard, but perhaps I’ll be better off for it. My family life will be respected and supported, the food will be better and if nothing else the sun will shine a lot more than it does here.