The morning side of midnight:

A series of short pieces, from the bulging book of writing ideas, often from some time ago, I keep handy, written as the title says after midnight, when I’ve always found myself to be at my most creative, and by then even the early evening wine has worn off!! Here’s the first that comes out at just over 250 words and as such sets a rough target, up to about 350 words, so no groaning that another ten pages of idle ramblings has arrived again from Roger, and maybe a reasonable target for the replies that people always tell me they are going to do, but rarely materialise!!

These were all in 2020

1        A reoccurring dilemma.

Well actually at the moment with France only just coming out of lockdown and strict social distancing rules, I’ve been spared this dilemma recently.

Kissing in France is, as I’ve said before something of a dilemma; to kiss or not to kiss, how many, starting which side and when do you know a man well enough for him to be included in the barrage of kisses that until recently started every get together – playing football, going for a group walk,  having a picnic and even meeting someone you know when out shopping!  Amazingly, as the multiple bissous are so much a part of France, two being the bare minimum and anything up to five or six for very good friends or Parisiens!, the present Covid – 19 crisis has totally put a stop to not only kissing but also shaking hands, after a brief period early on when elbow pumping became the fashion, before we weren’t even able to get close enough for that.

So, I suppose if the traditional and well used greetings don’t return, my dilemma may be solved for me, albeit rather drastically.  The dilemma is do I kiss my next-door neighbour when, each week I meet her very scantily clad and the rather apt bare minimum of two presents said dilemma.  I should hasten to add we are both swimming up and down the local swimming pool at the time, and sometimes a cursory wave is sufficient, if they are some distance away, but I’ve finally decided that when we do come face to face, when in France ….

 

2       Two French letters tonight!

I know what you’re thinking – quite an achievement for one so old, and indeed it is age that creates the problem.  All can be going swimmingly one day and the next I’m shooting blanks and can’t manage to string two letters together coherently, let alone enough words for two letters of the postal variety.  But, on this particular night needs must and with a little help from Linda, she’s better at French than I am, and the invaluable help of a dictionary and possible hindrance of Google translate, by morning the two letters were ready to go, one to be delivered by hand, the other entrusted to La Poste, by the very convenient and very French method of placing the letter in your household post box at the end of the drive and turning a dial inside.  That places a red marker in a little window and alerts Monsieur ou Madam Poste to the letter awaiting collection.  I’m further told, although have yet to put it to the test, that if you haven’t got a stamp you can put the money in with the letter and the postie will purchase a stamp for you, attach it to the letter and send it winging on its way, and should you not have the correct change, your change will be returned to your box the following day!

However, the posted letter being a rant about the fitting of our new fosse septique (septic tank) for which the contractor’s figures didn’t equate to ours, we had attached the correct stamp to ensure speedy delivery.   The other letter was to one of the local farmer’s family, who we had befriended when living in our rented house, and was to congratulate them on the birth of a baby son.

 

3      Whilst showering in northern Spain…….

I was standing naked under the warm trickle of water, when somewhat surprisingly transported back to a rather boozy night, close to Christmas, in The Rising Sun pub, in Gloucestershire.  No, it had nothing to do with the plentiful booze lowering the inhibitions and the rugby club atmosphere of that long-ago night causing scenes of nudity, it was rather to do with the music.

The publican at The Rising Sun at that time, had taken on the pub, and more or less retired from playing rugby at the weekends, restricted by the opening hours, as well as age creeping up and injuries becoming more frequent.  However, although I’m not sure how much he missed the battles on the pitch, it was obvious that he certainly missed the after-match revelries!

So once in a while, he would give the regulars the nod, myself included, and whilst calling time and ushering out the non-regulars, those in the know would sup slowly, until such time that the door could be locked and the lock in commenced.  On one memorable occasion, several of us regulars had to leave and hide round the corner, as one of the other drinkers sensing that a lock in was on the cards tried to gate-crash.  We waited for him to drive away before creeping back in through the back to continue the evening into the early hours.

The lock-ins were certainly no quiet affairs, and it was just as well there were no close neighbours and little chance of a passing police patrol car.  But the landlord came to life, standing crouched on a low bar stool in the middle of the low room and leading us through his repertoire of bawdy rugby drinking songs.  The lyrics of his favourite included “My sister Belinda, she peed out the window and filled up my brand-new sombrero.”  And that morning in Spain, whilst in the shower, a workman renovating part of the toilet block was loudly whistling the tune, and I nearly burst into spontaneous song, singing along!  

 

4      It made a difference for that one.

I have a very large framed print of an anonymous poem called Making a Difference, now hanging in my bedroom, and it is very dear to me, given to me by a very dear friend who felt I had!  (I also have a smaller version hanging in the study!) It’s about a wise man who goes walking on the beach and spies what he thinks is a young man dancing in the distance.  Getting closer he discovers that the man is actually reaching down and rhythmically picking up stranded starfish from the beach and returning them to the sea.

The wise man asked the young man what he is doing to which he replied “Throwing starfish into the ocean.”  The wise man then says what he should have asked is why are you doing this, to which the young man replied “The sun is up, and the tide is going out. And if I don’t throw them in they’ll die.”

The wise man then said that the young man couldn’t possibly make a difference as there were many miles of beach with stranded starfish all along it.  To which the young man didn’t reply straight away, instead he bent down, picked up another starfish and threw in back into the sea, then turned to the wise man and simply said “It made a difference for that one.”

Well, a couple of birthdays ago I went for a walk on a very long sandy beach, near to home, and imagine my surprise to find it liberally covered in stranded starfish, and like back then when the poem was gifted to me, I hope I made a difference for quite a few!

 

5      A snapshot from one night.

I often when locking up for the night stand on the top step of the front door and take in the surrounding night.  I guess it stems back to when Fergus would go out for a last “pud” (puddle) before bed and biscuits!

As I rarely go to bed much before two o’clock, something that a previous dog, Max, could never get used to and would often ask to be able to go to his bed, and have his biscuits!, well before that.  Mind you, he would at times try and pretend that he hadn’t been out earlier and think he should have more biscuits!!

Well, standing on the doorstep that late at night, usually means that all the lights are out in the neighbouring houses and without street lights, and with the nearest towns some distance away, the night is truly dark but sometimes anything but quiet.  Mostly natural noise such as frogs croaking in spring time, crickets in summer, owls hooting at any time and even the strange whirring of a nightjar, from a distance sounding more like the ticking over of a small underpowered mobylette, with just the occasional drone of a faraway aircraft, or a late-night traveller driving along the distant main road.

But this particularly early summer evening, not a frosty, cloudy and wet winter’s night, indeed it was a beautiful starlit night so I lingered, and was rewarded with the magical sight of a bright shooting star travelling far athwart the dark night sky, but even more magical was that its rapid, silent and very distance progress was serenaded by the beautiful lilting song a very nearby nightingale.  We are very fortunate to often be lulled to sleep by the nightingale, but rarely do we get the chance to see an accompanying ethereal light show!

 

6      Should we be worried?

Our local town, Fontenay le Comte, is a garrison town.  So, it is not uncommon to see army personnel shopping in full uniform.

On this particular day, Linda and I were in one of the local supermarkets and joined the queue behind a smart uniformed officer with just a couple of items, as he didn’t have much to go through the check out and there was only one person in front of him and they were just finishing.  This however, is not always a quick affair in France as shoppers often very slowly take items one at a time off the counter, place them loose in the trolley to be bagged up when they get to the car, pausing frequently to chat to the cashier and waiting until they have individually placed each item in the trolley before even thinking of getting out their loyalty card and means of payment.  And, if paying by cheque, still quite common in France, they have to get out their cheque book, tear out the next check and hand it to the cashier who places it in a machine, which rarely seems to work first time, to be printed and handed back to the customer to check the amount before signing and returning it to the cashier, probably after they have filled in the amount of the cheque on the section for keeping a tab on your spending.  The cashier prints off the till receipt, often accompanied by various other money off coupons, which must all be checked before stowing away and wishes the customer bon journée, bon après midi, bon weekend (any time from Thursday lunchtime) and anything else mildly appropriate. 

But this did give us time to see what the army officer was buying – a boxed set of Downton Abbey DVDs and a thick glossy magazine, which rather worryingly was one of a long series called “Strategies of War”, we were left thinking that should war break out hopefully the necessary strategies had been covered in an edition he had already read!

 

7       Englishmen Abroad

I’m an Englishman abroad, but have always tried my best to blend in, be it on holiday or now all the time as we live in France.  There’s nothing better to be walking down the street and for a French person passing in the car stopping to ask directions, thinking you’re a native.  Or going to a restaurant and having had that bizarre start to the evening where you are speaking French and the French waiter is answering in English, when they realise that actually you can at least get by in the local language and they return to the table and start speaking French, or in one memorable case, actually asked us if we would prefer to speak in French.  Having in this case obviously passed the test and the waiter realising we weren’t going to waste his time struggling, suddenly found time to chat about where we lived!

But one thing I do when out and about is people watch, and the Englishman abroad can be very embarrassing, I have on occasion felt the need to apologise for the behaviour of fellow Brits, often when they have imbibed just a little too much to be good for them, or those around them!

Over the years, it seems that the drunk Englishman abroad goes one of two ways:  They either get louder as the evening wears on and too much beer is consumed.  Then, they can become objectionable, shouting to make themselves understood, criticising the staff’s inability to speak English and have been know to belch, fart and find funny French works like PISScine!

Or, they go very quiet and maudlin, like the one I recently encountered outside a campsite restaurant, on an English owned site with a large fishing lake.  He was almost silently gazing over the large lake in the middle of the site, muttering to anyone who happened to be passing, but no-one in particular, “Fancy fucking waking up to this every morning, it would be fucking marvellous.”  I couldn’t help but agree with his sentiments, but no so much his Anglo-Saxon!

 

8       We were back in Stroud, most certainly!

We try to visit Stroud when we are back in the UK, not least to visit our son and granddaughter and catch up with friends.  We also try to visit on a Saturday to wander around the market, catch up on the café scene and soak up the atmosphere, and indeed spot native Stroudie’s!  Often, when we are out and about, the world over, we will pass a certain type of person and we’ll look at each other and silently agree another Stroudie in the world of eclectic people.

Indeed, our local town in France, Fontenay Le Comte, we have increasingly likened to Stroud, not least because of its Arts and Music scene, café culture, thriving market, as well as picturesque stone buildings and a long history.  There are also several true Stroudie’s amongst its population, although I guess we should call them Fontenaisie’s.

Fairly recently, we were back in Stroud with a little time on our hands and I went for a walk along part of the Stroudwater Canal near Ebley Mill.  First, I was passed by a young teenage girl, possibly about fourteen, who was wearing a floppy purple hat and bright yellow wellies (with other clothing I should add!) and it was the middle of summer!  Then, passing under one of the bridges I spotted some suitably erudite Stroudie graffiti, it simply said “Stroud. All hop e is gone!”, with the e of hope falling off the line, which sadly my computer won’t let me replicate accurately!

Finally, to completely make me realise I was in Stroud, I was passed by (not in this case the man in lady’s clothing who happily walks up and down the High Street, if my memory serves me right, sporting a beard!), no it was the dread-locked aged hippy who remains shoeless, even in the depth of winter!  I couldn’t have been anywhere else than the “People’s Republic of Stroud!”

 

9       Égalité a basic premise.

A couple of years ago, well I did say some of the thoughts were somewhat distant, I was in the kitchen cooking tea and Linda was outside with the door open doing some crépi work on our wall below the terrace at the front of the house.  Crépi is a thick masonry paint that is good for covering rough walls with minor cracks.

I then heard her talking to Yvette, our neighbour, who we hadn’t seen for some time.  They were generally passing the time of day and Yvette was complimenting Linda on her work, saying how good it was and how it made the front look splendid.

Having stirred the tea, I thought I should pop out and say hello to Yvette, who as I said we hadn’t seen for some time.  As I arrived on the terrace and exchanged pleasantries, I could see Yvette looking slightly askance, I was wearing an apron, but with the odd glance in Linda’s direction, before saying: “Linda fait le travail manuel et Roger la cuisine, je suppose que ça s'appelle l'égalité!”, which if you haven’t worked it out means: “Linda is doing the manual work and Roger the cooking, I suppose it's called equality!”  I couldn’t be sure if it was a complement to Linda or a back-handed swipe at me!

After all Egalité is, as the title suggests one of the basic premises of French culture.  Everywhere you go, particularly on public building you will see inscribed: Liberté, égalité, fraternité, which means “liberty, equality, fraternity”, and as it is the French National Motto, I felt I, indeed we, were doing our bit to integrate into French life!

 

10   Fine tuning

Several computers ago, it seems, I used to have a security system called AVG, which Wikipedia informs me stands for Anti-Virus Guard.

Well, it seems that quite frequently AVG, being a matey sort of anti-virus software would send me messages.  You know the type:  “We’ve scanned your computer zillions of times in the last few nano seconds and found the following problems, pay vast sums and we’ll sort them out for you.”  “Today’s your lucky day, we’ve found no problems with your computer, but paying us vast amounts, might just speed it up a little.”  “OK we’ve given up trying to upgrade you, at vast expense, how about you run this scan and see what we can do for you – at vast expense!

Actually, the free version seemed to work pretty well and do the job that I wanted it to do, it even did the odd FREE update, and then sent me a friendly message saying things like: “Did you think your computer booted up 15% faster, as we have upgraded AVG Free and you should be able to notice the difference!”  and not a mention of any money changing hands!  I’m not sure I ever particularly noticed a difference, but were too polite to say so, or rather felt if I did then they would be sure to fix it for me – at great expense!

Imagine then my excitement when I received the following message, short and succinct and obviously designed to make me dance a jig and sing the praises of AVG from the rooftops, or maybe as actually happened read the message incredulously, thinking maybe there was more!  The message “Did you think your computer booted up 1% faster!” to which all I could think is, I’m not sure I blinked, or maybe dozed off, as it wasn’t the fastest system I’ve used at the best of times.  But I did think I should have noticed a difference over time, as the combined messages told me that my computer should have been something in the order of 2000 times faster – it wasn’t! 

 

11  Choose your words carefully

Those of you who know me well will appreciate after over a decade living in France, my French has improved, possibly not in leaps and bounds but inch by inch, and the French are fairly forgiving if you at least make the effort.  The biggest problems are the language is very precise and you’ll be convinced that you’re saying beaucoup, as in merci beaucoup – thank you very much, and you’ll find a French friend creased up with laughter, maintaining you said beau coup as in nice bottom!  Also, once you have fluently complimented them on their derriere, they then assume you are generally fluent and reply so quickly that you are still on the second word when they have completed several sentences, the last one of which is a question, and you realise they are waiting for an answer!

However, we have over the last few years been increasingly visiting Spain and although I make an effort with greetings/farewells, ordering a coffee, loaf of bread or a piece of cheese, I can’t manage, try as I might to compliment the locals on their posteriors and even more worrying (possibly!!)I can’t manage to order a cerveza!  I did find out last year that it’s easier in Portugal, where the word is very similar – cerveja – but is pronounced as it is written.  Imagine then my delight, when in Spain recently, to discover an easier way to quench my thirst, and no it isn’t resorting to using finger and pointing to the pump, or indeed as a barman in Madrid, once suggested; he spoke no English but hearing my struggle looked me in the eye and said “two halves of bitter, señor!”, no I can now order a caña (a small beer), and it sounds like it looks!

But I must still remain vigilant, particularly after a caña or three and not muddle up my bodegars with my bordellos, the former being a temple to wine and the latter a temple to woman, both of which involve you with parting with large sums of money, or so I’m lead to believe in one case!

 

12  Overheard

I’ve been in several situations, when travelling by plane, train or ferry and there is someone having a loud, one sided conversation into a telephone?  Its tempting to angrily say “Do you mind, some of us are trying to sleep, read ……” or “For pity’s sake, please turn on the speaker then at least your conversation would make sense!” or “Do you think it might be more private / less irritating if you stepped outside to have that conversation!”, difficult at 30,000 ft in an aeroplane, although ……!

Twice recently it happened to me, on a ferry without the telephone involved.  In both cases the two people involved were sitting very close to me, not so close to each other, late at night and I was trying to sleep.  The first one, on reflection, was a little sad and falls into the category of “It’s good to talk,” but better in a quiet corner in hushed tones, as the whole lounge didn’t need to know.  A man who seemed to be travelling alone had befriended a fellow traveller and proceeded to regale them the sad story of his wife’s serious medical condition, visits to the doctor / hospital, the prescribed medications and her ultimate demise.  We then learnt all about visits by the children, prior to her death, funeral details and subsequent transportation of her ashes back to the UK.  Not only the volume of this conversation made it difficult to fall asleep, the content also didn’t help!

The second high-volume conversation was between two women, one doing most of the talking.  The animated conversation built up over a period of some time and was basically all about an important document that finally “he” had signed and so now couldn’t be changed unless …… and there followed a number of scenarios where actually it could be changed!  As for the document, I never did find out what it was, despite knowing all the ramifications of getting it signed in the first place and that actually it still wasn’t legally binding!

 

 13   Le rossignol chantait

I’m reminded of this as earlier tonight, even when listening to music on my headphones, the unmistakeable gravelly sound of a nightjar ground through the open door, and it’s the first we’ve heard for some time.  I was talking to our new neighbours the other day about said bird, and likened it to one of those old-fashioned French mobylettes, powered by a “cylinder” engine mounted above the front wheel.  In fact, the noise is more like one of these underpowered mopeds straining to go up a slight incline, more than that and you have to assist by pedalling – and then the noise changes!

But back to le rossignol chantant, or indeed le rossignol chaitait dans le cour secrѐte, which if you’re not following translates as “The nightingale sang in the hidden courtyard”, which sadly doesn’t scan particularly well to the tune of “A nightingale sang in Berkley Square”, and for once I even think the English sounds better and certainly more romantic!

We first heard the nightingale, or at least became aware of hearing it some years ago when we were sitting in said courtyard, with a large group of friends from England and as it became darker, we became aware of this bird singing loudly in a tree by the wall, we were being well and truly, and beautifully serenaded, almost without realising it!  Then, someone said “What’s that bird singing, is it a nightingale?  Being not sure someone confirmed it with a suitable app on their mobile which must have given the real bird something of a shock, when close by a fellow feathered friend started singing loudly!  Fortunately, it didn’t seem to mind and carried on its virtuoso performance for us.

I’ve not heard one close by so far this year, but I am reminded that last year for several weeks we were nightly entertained, sometimes by more than one, to the point that some nights it was almost tempting to stick our head out of the window and ask them to keep the noise down, particularly as it is always rather a lively tune!!

 

13   Have Harley will barbie

Several summers ago, the sun was shining, spring had been left behind and things were hotting up.

On the roads it was the normal story, more lycra clad cyclists, who as you approach them from behind look lithe and young and are making a cracking pace as you would expect of one at the peak of fitness.  Overtaking them you look in your mirror and see the rider isn’t a day under seventy and it’s a firm bet that they’ll be doing more kilometres than their age!  Then the French caravans, as opposed to caravans from elsewhere in Europe.  Why does this make it summer?  Well, it is very unusual to see a touring French caravan on the roads outside the months of July and August – that’s when France holidays!

Roadside stalls are reopened selling produce such as melons and everywhere is advertising “Rentrée!”  That so used to annoy me, when I was a teacher and had just got rid of the little darlings and was looking forward to a restful holiday and going to stock up with some restorative beer and entering the supermarket you’re reminded that it’s not that long until it’s “Back to School!”

Now as I browse the wine aisle, looking for summer rosé and salad stuff, the classroom is increasingly distant, and other than the people (children and staff) rarely missed!  

The roads also become full of large powerful motorbikes, that must have been mothballed during the colder and wetter months, when putting on wet weather gear is only for the real enthusiast, or those relying on their bike for work.  So, cocking a snoot to the “Rentrée” signs, we went shopping in Fontenay le Comte, and there in the supermarket carpark was a brilliant (in more ways than one) red Harley Davison, the rider just starting it up with that distinctive and immediately recognisable throaty roar.  He’d popped down to the shops and his only purchase was strapped to the pillion seat – a large bag of charcoal for the barbie!  

 

          16   He was certainly a disappointment to them!

Back on the ferry…… and once more people watching!  We were having breakfast as the ferry set off, before trying to have a bit of a sleep, to recharge ready for the drive the other side.  On a nearby table sat what some might regard as the “perfect” family; Mum, Dad, older sister and younger brother, except only three of them sat stoically eating their breakfast whilst the son was having his breakfast on the run, flitting in and out to collect the next tasty morsel before circling the nearby tables, not particularly noisily, but without pausing.

Now the boy was perhaps ten if not a little older, and certainly, some would say, old enough to know better, and although showing no outward signs of a disability, I’m quite happy to concede that it could have been caused by a number of conditions or disorders on the autistic spectrum.  Indeed, in many ways he was doing us and those around us no harm and the worst harm he might cause himself was probably a bout of indigestion!

Really, it wasn’t his behaviour that caught my eye, but that of the rest of the family, who may at this point have simply reached the end of their tethers and were trying hard to pretend he wasn’t there!  Body language from the parents certainly gave the impression that he was a great disappointment to them, but more striking was the fact that the older sister, perhaps aged thirteen or fourteen, wasn’t a disappointment, as they all sat there having an animated and in depth conversation, with serious bits , light amusement and above all oblivion, if not total forgetfulness that the younger sibling existed at all, the daughter NOT, as might well have been the case, trying to milk the situation.  It had obviously been a long day, and they weren’t there yet, and I couldn’t help but reflect sadly on whether every day was like this.

More to follow next year!!