2006 July « petite anglaise

July 7, 2006

deux ans

Filed under: misc — petiteanglaise @ 6:02 pm

Gracious, I almost forgot.

Once upon a time, I wrote a whimsical post about calpol and menthol eucalyptus suppositories on a freshly created blogspot blog. I still get clickthroughs today from people who have searched for the latter and ended up here, a little disoriented and unsure as to how they washed up on these shores.

Two years have flashed by. There have been highs and lows (and I haven’t even begun to tell you about the lows, so do bear with me and I will enlighten you very soon) but on the whole I have no regrets. I have been prone to worry, on occasion, that this blog lives my life for me. But only sometimes. Mostly I’m just grateful for the number of firm friends I have made through petite anglaise, the way writing has helped me to find a little clarity when my head is a fuzzy mass of tangled thoughts, and above all for the way in which through this blog I re-discovered my long forgotten love of writing, many years after my creative writing efforts in GCSE English with Mr Jones.

In honour of my blogbirthday, I reserve the right to have a drink or two, to celebrate, so I may not be around to moderate comments this evening.

I wonder if it wouldn’t be fitting to light a couple of menthol eucalyptus suppositories?

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July 6, 2006

hostage

Filed under: navel gazing — petiteanglaise @ 2:05 pm

The hour is a little after midnight. I am fiddling around on my computer, trying to fill in a hellishly complicated ASSEDIC form for my nanny, whose contract is almost finished. I am loath to turn in, even though I am exhausted from a lengthy trip to Ikea, because I doubt I will be able to sleep, thanks to the jovial racket emanating from my neighbourhood’s football fans.

The conundrum is this: open the window and hear whooping, car horns a-beeping and, more worryingly, people singing along to something cheesy which I suspect may be Claude François, or slowly broil to death in my apartment.

I can’t escape the feeling I am being held hostage.

* * * * * * *

The year is 1998. Mr Frog and I are moving into our first shared apartment, on rue Richard Lenoir, a stone’s throw from Père Lachaise. The day has been uncommonly stressful, despite the fact that Mr Frog didn’t actually possess much in the way of furniture to begin with.

After delivering his belongings to the new flat, we made the mistake of heading off in the rented van to Ikea that very same day. Predictably, we buy half the shop, including elephant ice cube trays and a Klippan sofa. Arriving home, we realise that said sofa will not budge beyond the narrow hallway of our building, and certainly cannot be manoeuvred into the courtyard from which our apartment is entered. As it is a bank holiday weekend, a monte-charge cannot be procured for several days, and when it can, hiring it will likely cost as much as the sofa itself.

We also realise that we have missed the deadline for returning the van, and will have to pay for an extra day’s rental.

Hardly an auspicious start to our life together.

Once the tears have dried, I graciously allow Mr Frog to go out with some friends to watch the final, leaving me to unpack our belongings and assemble the remaining furniture. In peace.

Except of course for the small fact that France are playing in the final, and the streets are alive with the sound of men watching sport, loudly. I haven’t yet plugged in the television, but there is little point. There is no mistaking that sound people make when a goal is scored. No room for ambiguity whatsoever.

I know the score.

* * * * * * *

Eight years have passed, almost to the day, and I can’t help marvelling at the symmetry of it all. My imminent move, today’s trip to Ikea (and I don’t know what they put in those meatballs, but I believe they are evil, and am holding them responsible for all my retail bulemia), new beginnings…

As for the football, I resolve to wash and dry Tadpole’s Italia t-shirt dress, which is currently liberally smeared with ice cream fingermarks, in time for the final.

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July 3, 2006

tigresse

Filed under: Tadpole rearing — petiteanglaise @ 9:33 pm

TGV Paris-Angouleme, Friday 30 June

Tadpole heaves the armrest up and down violently, watching my face intently, wondering when I will crack. I am biding my time, because she has already done the high pitched screechy crying thing twice in the space of the last hour and there is only so much I, or any of my fellow passengers, can take. She hasn’t had a nap today, and it shows. I am utterly drained after all the dashing around this past week.

We are both on exceedingly short fuses.

The carriage is full. Behind me, a young man is making a loud tutting noise, doubtless for my benefit. I silently cast an evil spell, which if it works, will ensure that he has many train journeys with tantrum riddled offspring in his future. Only then will he fully comprehend the answer to the question he is currently asking himself: “why can’t she keep that child under control?”

Finally the armrest bangs just one time too many, and I feel an over-taut nerve snapping.

“Right! Enough! No more banging! Play with your Dora stickers and leave the seat alone!”

Cue high pitched screechy crying.

The thing is, I know full well that I am not being a good parent right now. That what I should be doing, is finding some means of distracting my daughter, instead of growling “stop that horrible noise right now!”

But knowing what you should be doing and summoning the willpower to do so are two very different things.

I haul Tadpole to her feet and set off in the direction of the buffet car. Her face is covered in a mixture of felt tip pen and angry tears.

I don’t know about Tadpole, but I for one need chocolate.

TGV Angouleme-Paris, Sunday 2 July

The train is full, but I barely notice. A part of me is still lying by the pool, one leg and one arm grazing the cool water, wearing my favourite dark brown bikini, purchased in a Givenchy solde privée years ago, and now, miraculously, a perfect fit once more. I wonder, idly, if anyone else has ever inspected toddler stools for pebbles whilst wearing a Givenchy bikini.

Tadpole chatters excitedly about her weekend, which was mostly spent wearing Nemo armbands and shrieking “maman! regarde! ch’suis une petite sirène! I’m a mermaid!” and trotting about after her two little golden haired playmates.

I pull out my camera and we look back at the photographs of the weekend.

“ROAR!” growls Tadpole, as I show her a snap of her royal highness in full tiger facepaint. She gnaws my cheek, mock hungrily, and shouts “mummy, I’m going to eat you all up!”

I cower back in my seat, pulling a mock horrified face, which elicits the expected giggle.

“But… if you eat me all up, there’ll be no more mummy, and THEN what will you do?” I enquire, in a worried voice.

“When you are gone,” says Tadpole carefully, levelly, navigating her tenses expertly, “I won’t have to speak English. Any. More.”

I am lost for words.