A Walk in the Woods

On the outskirts of the centre ville in Lorgues there is a wood on a hill. At the top of the hill is an hermitage, which I have seen from the outside, but have yet to explore. It's a pretty steep climb up the hill, but really nice to be surrounded by trees and relative quiet! I revel also in the hope of some slight improvement cardiovascular health...

Rock vs Sponge

At what point did I stop being a rock, steadfastly and safely impervious to the emotions of others, and become a sponge, soaking it all up with a galling amount of empathy?

Partners shouting at each other disturb me.

An Afternoon Happily Spent

There is something about libraries and art galleries. The attentive preservation of the creative work of others, the hushed voices, the regulated air temperature, the type of person who spends time there, who knows. But it's nice to visit a library or art gallery or even an old fashioned museum (the type where things are kept under glass and you are instructed to look but not touch, not the new fangled museums that try to make you learn by engaging you in some kind of interactive display). Calming. Tranquil.

Community Planner

Images courtesy of www.carnets-voyage.com and www.sophieneck-berlin.de

What every town needs is a nice little platz or plaza or square or whatever you want to call it, where people can gather, loiter and watch the world go by. I miss the Piazza del Campo in Florence, which, though touristy as hell, was great value in terms of perching on a step and watching locals, tourists and street performers. Sitting on a bench on the main drag of Lorgues just isn't quite the same.

Every town also needs a nice little park with some green in it. The French are great with putting in parks, but not so great and creating and maintaining a refreshing expanse of green grass and shrubbery. One doesn't pad softly through the park, the grass soothingly underfoot. Instead, you scrunch dustily atop gravel. It's very practical. But harsh and indifferent too. I miss the parks of Berlin. I miss the sweet cemetary garden in Sweden that I used to zen out in every day.

Chinese

I went with my French family on a Chinese food shopping spree yesterday and I cooked today for lunch (the first real Chinese food I've had since May -- god, AGES!). Things I've missed about Chinese food without realising it for the last 4 months:

1. The smell and taste and warmth of Chinese tea.

2. The smell of rice cooking by reduction.

3. Bok choy.

4. Meat in a sweet, sticky and caramelised sauce.

5. Soup with rice in it.

Woody Allen Films Are Overrated

Well, they are. He has some good ideas, but I'm weary of events being drawn out for far too long and with too little subtlety. Seeing him play more or less the same character in each film: a nervous, weak, hand wringing and ultimately very annoying person, is equally unsatisfying. I don't think those roles required any acting prowess of him. Who keeps giving him money to make movies? (The same people who give money to Michael Bay?)

Funny

http://www.stim.com/main.html

Click. Read. Laugh.

All About Food

1. When someone in France says something about "pain perdu" they are not talking about inflicting injury to each of the deserving (literal English) or finding their lost loaf of bread (literal French). They are talking about a tasty concoction made using yesterday's bread, eggs, milk, sugar and cinnamon. The rest of us call it French toast. My family cacked themselves the other day when they asked if I'd heard of pain perdu and I said, something is lost?

2. Baptiste said his first word the other day. (I promise this is food related). Most of his other vocalisations sound like squeaks and squeals when he's happy (he also likes to hit his chest with his fist and shake his head madly if he's really ecstatic) or if he's feeling sorry for himself he goes "mmmmuh mmmmmuh mmmmmuh" and if he's angry/frustrated he makes a slightly more unpleasant squealing sound or a harsh kind of "ah!" sound (which is the exact same sound we make when he's about to touch something he's not supposed to "Ah ah ah!! No Baptiste! Tu ne touche pas!! Don't touch!!" Boy, am I a pro at saying that now). But, I digress. So the kid says his first word. Twice. And has refused to do it since. Amusingly, the rest of us have taken to saying the word randomly at intervals, just in case he decides to do it again. And what was the word? Gateau!!

Paella and Whiskey

I like drinking whiskey straight up. No ice, no mixer, no chaser. The whiskey, the whole whiskey and nothing but the whiskey. I picked up the taste for it last year in China, when:

- Firstly, the tour group I was with in Beijing were provided with tiny, free bottles of (nasty, sharp but effective) whiskey at lunch one day (actually it was a colourless liquid, probably more akin to vodka) and all the other (married) women would have none of it, so of course I was the one to say, sock it to me! (Actually I said, YUM SING).

- Secondly, on the overnight trip I took to the grasslands of Inner Mongolia, we got just a little plastered on the same nasty stuff (actually, even NASTIER -- the stuff I had in Beijing was utterly smooth by comparison), spent the night singing songs and finally retired to our yurts, dreading the moment when our bladders required we make the pitch black journey to the windy, outdoor, communal, squatting toilets.

- And thirdly, in Xian, when a guy I met bought me a double shot of Johnny Walker Black Label (infinitely tastier than either the first or second experience) and I spent the night telling him and his best mate that they had a history going out with idiotic princesses of women and should try to find some girl not satanically warped by the expectations of society and the media.(GOOD LUCK!!)(How I love my soap box of why I hate other women).

BUT!

You know you've been leading far too domestic an existence when you're at a quasi-barbie (quasi because it's happening in France, not Australia and they're making paella not snaggers), have a sip of whiskey on the rocks (and briefly reminisce about the good old days) and immediately become a smidge tipsy. It's neither here nor there really, because the only person spending a great deal of time with me is one year old and won't notice my whiskey breath, and, even better, walks more erratically sober than I do inebriated. (Toddlers, bless). Well, I noticed, nevertheless.

Also, the paella took AGES to cook and wasn't ready by the time Baptiste had to go home for bath and bed, so I hadn't had anything to eat whilst I was drinking (excuses, excuses). Didn't stop me from having another one though, just because I like whiskey and dislike puritan naysayers saying nay about drinking.

So, the score so far:

Whiskey neat: 2
Paella: 0
Child bathed, fed and put to bed: 1
Microwave leftover dinner: 1
Tipsy blog: 1

Richard Hammond

Image courtesy of www.jalopnik.com

I was mildly concerned when I read about Richard Hammond's car crash. I didn't want him to die. I don't want most people to die, but I didn't want it a little more (what a deliciously atrocious sentence!) for Richard Hammond. I don't know him personally. I watch Top Gear (the show he co-presents) occasionally and Brainiac (another one) even less. I don't have one of those futile celebrity crushes on him. He is amusing and unoffensive and in practical terms kind of useless but I would care more if he died than if John Howard did.

How sad that the disciplined, the hard working, the useful, the practical, the ones who say the unpleasant things that must be said or make the difficult choices, will always be the least popular.

Actually, that's not necessarily true. Apparently John Cleese never gave a shit about being liked or not, which gave him the freedom to be one of the funniest comedians ever (according to his fellow Pythons). Ah, but being admired, respected and at the top of one's field isn't the same as being liked.

Fuck it, if John Cleese doesn't care about popularity, there's no reason for me to get maudlin over it either... But I'm still glad that Richard Hammond wasn't hurt in that car crash.

Doin' It For The Kids

Images courtesy of www.chantastic.net & www.tonya.me.uk




When I was about seventeen, and for a good few years after, I yearned and longed for a baby. It was so strong, that I actually felt it as a physical sensation. I didn't question why. Biological imperative.

A little later, I decided there were so many idiots in the world that it was my duty to put at least a couple of non idiots (ie my progeny) into it. Egotistical. And uncertain -- just because a child is raised by me it doesn't mean it will think and behave like me (I sure as hell don't think or behave like my parents, what a blessing that is!).

Later still, I thought a baby would be a symbol of commitment I had to whoever I had the baby with. Illogical and selfish. A baby is a person, not a certificate of achievement. And parents decide to separate all the time, regardless of the children. The best symbol of commitment I can make to a partner is to behave in a committed manner on an ongoing basis.

And there are other factors at work on men and women contemplating, or unwillingly thrust, into parenthood, though they may affect me less (or more). Social expectations. The desire to have a little doll to play with and show off to others. Loneliness. Distraction.

Once you get past all of that (I wonder if we ever truly do) why on earth do people have babies? Is there are really decent and unselfish reason for having one?

And there are so many reasons for not...

It's essentially inviting a stranger to live with you for twenty or more years. And as you get to know them, you may or may not like them (what a blow it would be to raise your child and at the end of it realise that although you love them, you don't actually like them very much). Children come fully equipped with their own personality at birth, and maybe you can teach and shape them a little, but they have their own preferences and are capable of making their own decisions far earlier than we think or care to admit.

And once we've had a child (I'm now speaking on behalf of women) it's all downhill -- our selfish DNA knows that it's propagated itself and that slow decay towards death speeds up just ever so.

And it's expensive. And frustrating. And SO time consuming!!

The stage of life I'm in at the moment, I know I'm simply too selfish to want to be a parent.

And I know that my train of thought will change more or less the instant I decide that I do want to be a parent, after all.

Carn Australia!!

I'm watching the Rugby World Cup, mildly surprised at my interest, but even more surprised at the patriotic pride I feel about being an Australian and supporting the Australian team (and to a lesser extent, being neighbours with New Zealand and supporting them also, unless they're playing Australia, which they're not at the moment. They're playing Italy and kicking Italy's arse). Me, interested in watching sport and actually supporting a team. Who would have thought?

Day Trippin'

The family and I visited Moustiers Saint Marie yesterday to have lunch at a nice little restaurant, make the steep ascent up to the chapel and then drove a little while away to the lake and gorge, where I was able to immerse myself in a large body of water for the first time in six months and then we all took a boat ride up the gorge. A really active and lovely day out (my legs were protesting somewhat this morning).

Baptiste Repaux

The little boy I'm looking after in France =)

Devenir

Devenir is French for "to become".

I used to feel guilty for always wanting to become something other than what I currently was, or to go somewhere other than where I currently was. Why couldn't I just be content?

I've recently stopped feeling guilty about it and have just tried to accept the fact.

Baptiste, (the little boy I'm looking after in France) is one year old. He has loving parents, an attentive (if somewhat bossy) nounou (that's me), food , shelter, lots of toys and more clothes than you can poke a stick at. What more could he possibly want? Why, to become something else, namely, like the adults (ah child psychology). If we read, he wants to look at what we're reading. He doesn't want his own books. He wants our books specifically. He wants to eat like us, drink like us, and close his the door of his room when he plays with his toys (like us)(I find this last one very amusing. At the moment it's supposed to be punishment if he's put in his room with the door closed. Soon it won't be).

A one year old boy longs to be something other than what he is. It's a survival trait -- because of this, he learns new skills and experiences new things. Human nature.

So, at 28, it's not really unusual or unnatural at all that I'm restless at times, that I long for something other than else. It means that I haven't sunk into the sludgy mass of apathy and routine that so often seems to mark adulthood. It means that I'm not ready to lay down and die just yet. It means that I want to live.

All. About. Me.

Ah, the self centred. No matter what the subject starts out as, somehow it always becomes All. About. Me. I have friends with whom the conversation flows, but only if it's about their work, their friends, their love lives, or lack thereof. (The latter irritates me. Fucklessness should be remedied with action or accepted stoically. Repetitive whinging about it, or the women who enable it does nothing). However, if I speak of the same subjects for myself, I get is a disinterested, "Yeah, right." Of course, I am self centred too, but in the battle of self centredness, I lose.

(It's not really such a bad thing, I guess).

Something Happened

I'm reading this wonderfully depressing book by John Heller at the moment called Something Happened. The narration is wry, perceptive and full of quiet despair. The description and analysis of his relationships is particularly wounding and poingnant. I really identify with his sense of bittersweet loss and nostalgia, of feeling that things are different to how they used to be and probably to how one might have wanted them to be, that things change when you don't want them to, that they stay the same when you wish they would change. At one point he is reminiscing about an old friend and what might have become of him and ends with, "I don't know what happened to him. I don't even know what happened to me."

Parenthood

I think it must be heart breaking at times to be a parent. To put so much effort and care into something and to have such little, futile control over what they are and what they will become, which is, inevitably, something distant, other and alien from oneself. It's a tough cop.

The Lion and the Unicorn

Well, this is what I've been doing with the copious amounts of free time I've had during the last three weeks...



Despite the rather affectionate embrace depicted in my rendition of them, the lion and unicorn are supposedly eternal foes, as both have the right to rule over the animal kingdom -- the lion through might and the unicorn through harmony. They are both present on the United Kingdom coat of Arms, (this was a fairly recent occurrence, when some Scottish king somehow became ruler of both England and Scotland, I think through no English successor being available). The lion represents England and the unicorn, Scotland (note my unicorn is a ranga), though I wonder if they also represent each country in the old nursery rhyme...

The lion and the unicorn were fighting for the crown,
The lion beat the unicorn all about the town.
Some gave them white bread and some gave them brown,
Some gave them plum pie and drummed them out of town.