petite anglaise

January 16, 2007

Tadpole talk

Filed under: Tadpole says — petiteanglaise @ 5:44 pm

Tadpole and I sit on her bed, side by side. I bend forwards to unbuckle her shoes (Clarks, navy blue and purple with sequins. Sensible shoes fit for a princess.)

“Mummy, I can see a bottom peeping there,” shrieks Tadpole. An icy hand reaches for the space between my jumper and my low waist jeans and I flinch in anticipation of her touch.

“Why do they fall off, your trousers?” she continues, puzzled now. “Look mummy!” She turns to show me her own rear. “We can’t see my bottom, can we? My trousers don’t do that…”

“And a good thing too!” I say, hastily pulling my jumper down.

There are some scenes that need to take place behind closed doors, and that was definitely one of them.

January 14, 2007

The Adoption

Filed under: adoption — petiteanglaise @ 9:53 pm

Books about adoption, whether fiction or memoir, hold a special fascination for me, and always will. Some of my own experiences as an adoptee are documented in the “adoption” category of this blog.

Which is why Dave Hill’s book “The Adoption” caught my attention. Dave, a fellow Brit and blogger, has become a virtual friend and a fascinating “inside source” on the weird and wonderful world of publishing.

The basic premise of “The Adoption” is as follows: a couple who realise they are too old to have any more children (and who already, in fact, have three of their own: two teens, and a younger son at primary school) decide to apply to adopt another child in order to complete their family. Given the dearth of newborns available for adoption, they are offered the opportunity to care for Jody, a three-year-old who has lived with a string of different foster parents since being removed from the care of her young, alcoholic mother by social services.

Told from the point of view of all the members of the family in turn, including Jody herself (who is, of course, Tadpole’s age), I found “The Adoption” incredibly honest and illuminating. The characters rang astonishingly true, and for the first time, I think, I fully appreciated what a minefield bringing up several children represents, and how complex the interaction of family members can be. Welcoming a newcomer into the fold creates tensions, both exacerbating existing problems and creating new ones. I found myself on tenterhooks, wondering whether ultimately Jane had bitten off more than she could chew.

I also found myself dreading Tadpole’s teenage years, as Dave Hill’s descriptions of the teenage daughter, Lorna, brought back vivid memories of some of the despicable things I once said to my own mother under the influence of raging hormones.

The following is a short extract, a scene which takes place shortly after Jody’s arrival at her new home.

Her name was Jody: Jody Jones.

Jane knew that three-year-olds are leaving babyhood behind. They may still get scared by strange noises or imaginary beasts, and may still cling to comfort blankets. But mostly they are becoming sociable. They begin to enjoy the company of other children; they like to laugh and act daft; they start to grasp the shocking truth that grown-ups cannot read their minds and sometimes need to have things explained. Times passage, too, begins to have meaning. They start to talk about the future and the past.

The past: Jody’s past; the mental space from which it was Jane’s mission to rescue her. Jody got slowly to her feet.

‘Come on, Jody. Let me give you a hug.’ Jane held out her arms. Jody stepped into them, keeping hold of the doll and leaving Grandpa’s Handkerchief behind. Jane lifted her up, shocked by her lightness yet almost breathless with the weight of responsibility. ‘Let’s find the others, shall we?’ she said.”

Once I’d finished “The Adoption“, I sent it as a gift to another blogger I have never met, but often corresponded with, who is in the process of applying to adopt a young child himself.

Such a vast place, the internet, and yet such a small world at the same time.

January 9, 2007

tapage nocturne

Filed under: city of light — petiteanglaise @ 7:45 pm

“Scrape scrape clatter SCRAPE!”

This is the sound my upstairs neighbours’ clogs make as they grate against the hardwood floor like giant fingernails on a blackboard, at a volume loud enough to actually wake me from a deep, dreamless slumber. At least I imagine their feet clad in clogs. What else could possibly make that unforgivable noise? Although why anyone would slip on a pair of clogs at 2am, I am at an utter loss to understand. Ditto how anyone can stomp around for half an hour at 2am and then begin again, bright eyed and bushy tailed, at 6.30am. I’m beginning to suspect that there may be more than one culprit. Two clog wearers in the same household working different shifts. Statistically unlikely, I know, but I can furnish no other convincing explanation.

Naturally I was not treated to my first clog concerto until the ink was drying on the deeds to the apartment.

“Whhhhhiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrr. Grrrrrrrrr. Ding!” growls the microwave five centimetres away from my pillow at 7 am every morning, part of my elderly neighbour’s morning ritual, no doubt warming milk for a steaming bowl of café crème or a chocolat chaud. I try to look on the bright side. At least I don’t have to shell out for an alarm clock, as it would be superfluous, to say the least.

Tadpole’s side of the apartment shares a wall with the kitchen/dining room belonging to the old lady who often smells of urine and affectionately calls me “ma fille” in her sandpaper voice. She also appears to be hard of hearing, as we are regularly treated to bursts of cheerful North African music played at full blast on the radio. Thankfully she is reasonably quiet in the evenings.

But by far the worst noise pollution I have experienced so far were the shenanigans I overheard on Christmas day, when I fell gratefully into the warm embrace of my duck-down duvet after mainlining champagne and foie gras from noon until midnight. The culprits were, once again, the upstairs neighbours. This time the clogs were off, as, I imagine, were most of their garments. And evidently they had discovered a new pastime: sex. With what I can only describe as noisy abandon and great gusto Mr Clogs serviced his good lady wife from midnight until a little after 4 am.

Since I’ve been living here since late July, and this was both the first and the only time I’ve overheard so much as a moan of pleasure, I can only conclude that this was an annual lovemaking session and will consequently not be repeated before the evening of 25 December 2007. Call me an optimist, but I live in hope (but with emergency waxy earplugs at the ready).

I have never met my upstairs neighbours, but I am told they own their apartment. But in today’s post I received the convocation to the (also) annual assemblée générale des copropriétaires for my building which will take place next week. Nothing could keep me away. I need to know what a woman who brays like a donkey during coitus and is capable of upwards of ten orgasms in one single night looks like.

Whether I will feel able to look my neighbours in the eye, or be sufficiently bold to humbly request that they might consider wearing less offensive nocturnal footwear in the future, is another matter entirely. I can imagine the conversation already.

“Les murs sont comme du carton ici, n’est ce pas?”

“Ah, on vous dérange, mademoiselle?”

“Non, non, pas du tout…”

Sometimes I hate my British side.

January 8, 2007

wake up call

Filed under: Tadpole rearing — petiteanglaise @ 9:39 am

As I stumble out of the lift which takes me to the first floor of Mr Frog’s apartment building, I rub sleep from my eyes and curse Mr Frog’s friend under my breath. “I’m helping someone move house tomorrow,” had been his parting shot as Tadpole placed her hand in his and they turned to leave, the previous evening. “You’ll have to come by at 10 am to pick her up.” I groaned at the prospect. Despite my good intentions, it was my first night back in Paris with my friends and there was talk of going on to a party after dinner.

Cut to Sunday morning: predictably, I am sluggish and irritable, a band of pain tightening across my forehead.

I press Mr Frog’s intercom button, pretending not to notice the twitching of the concierge’s curtain opposite. I look at my watch. 10.09. Not bad going, all things considered. Particularly in view of the fact that I had set my alarm for 9.55.

There is no reply.

I sigh. There are two possibilities here: either Mr Frog and Tadpole have popped out to the local baker’s for pain au chocolat, and I narrowly missed them as I dragged myself from my house to his, or, the more likely explanation, they are both still asleep. The blinds on Mr Frog’s bedroom window are scarily efficient, letting not even the merest chink of light through, and Tadpole consequently sleeps later here than anywhere else.

The next ten minutes are spent alternating between buzzing the intercom and calling Mr Frog’s mobile, which rings and rings before playing his voicemail message. I wonder how long I have to stand there before the concierge will actually stop her covert surveillance and come out to ask me if she can be of assistance. Her unseen presence is the only thing which prevents me from sliding down the wall and putting my head in my hands and rocking back and forth like crazy people always seem to in films.

Suddenly the door buzzer sounds, and I am in. I take the second lift, combing my fingers through the dreadlocks which seem to form at the back of my head when I sleep, and perfect my pained “you got me out of bed for nothing” expression in the mirror.

“Hi,” says a sheepish, pyjama clad Mr Frog. “I was asleep. I was dreaming that there was someone at the door…”

“I see that,” I reply drily. “She still asleep?”

We tiptoe into Mr Frog’s bedroom, where Tadpole is gently snoring, as she always does when she has a cold. Mr Frog strokes her cheek, and I take a seat on the floor by her bedside. It occurs to me that the last time we woke her together was at least eighteen months ago. I hope she won’t be too confused when she wakes.

By the time we have given her time to “come ’round” and Mr Frog has showered and breakfasted, it is 11 a.m. I spend much of the hour lying prostrate on the sofa, examining with some interest the undercarriage of a Christmas Princess Barbie, who has flesh-coloured, high-waisted pants covering her modesty. Textured underwear which forms part of her plastic body, and which may never be removed. I furrow my brow, trying to remember whether Barbies had chastity pants in my day. Meanwhile Tadpole dresses herself, putting her t-shirt on back to front, omitting pants altogether and getting her jeans back to front.

There are tears when we leave, which not even the promise of a trip to the baker’s for breakfast can banish. “I want to help daddy’s friend move house,” protests Tadpole. “I can carry the very small things…”

I pick up my own small thing and kiss her tears away. Something tells me it is going to be a long day.

January 5, 2007

intermission

Filed under: misc — petiteanglaise @ 11:38 am

I’m currently in the UK doing family things, back in Paris with Tadpole tomorrow. Normal service will resume shortly.

In the meantime, perhaps I could enlist your help over here?

Other blogs which are, in my opinion, deserving of your support can be found in my sidebar.

I’ve never won a bloggie. Two years ago I was nominated in the “best new blog” category, up against defamer, which was clearly a flattering but doomed state of affairs. Last year I dropped off the Best European shortlist during the panel voting round, so I couldn’t even try to give Zed a run for her tiara.

Perhaps 2007 will be my year?

January 1, 2007

taking stock

Filed under: good time girl, navel gazing, single life — petiteanglaise @ 10:17 pm

2006 was nothing if not eventful.

I got dumped.
I bought my first home.
I got fired.
I got outed.
I was given an exciting opportunity.

2007 should be a little quieter, less turbulent. A few important dates loom on the landscape. A hearing at the industrial tribunal on 19 February. A first book to deliver by 4 July.

But the thing which I’d most like to happen sometime soon, the thing I finally feel ready for, is the only thing that you can never plan. The thing which you can guarantee will only happen when you stop hoping; when you look the other way; when you least expect it.

I’d like to meet someone. Someone I can lose my appetite over. Someone who fills my head with silly daydreams. Someone who has the power to make me smile at complete strangers in the métro. Someone who doesn’t follow this blog, ideally, as I’d like to be discovered little by little, not offered up in one king-sized serving.

I spent much of 2006 keeping men I met at arm’s length, or pushing them firmly away. Partly, I suppose, because no single person I met was “all that”. Partly because I’d been badly burned and no longer dared trust my instincts. But also due to the simple fact that there was so much going on, so much that was new and terrifying that I wanted to come to terms with all the change before I let someone else in.

Taking stock, as 2006 drew to a close, I was forced to admit to myself that there is something a little empty about this life I’ve been leading. Spending hours alone, writing about events in my past, by day. Partying a little too hard by night, whenever the opportunity presented itself. I’m no fool. I see the binge drinking and bad behaviour for what it really is: a symptom of my malaise, escapism, a temporary stress release mechanism.

It’s time to set my life on a healthier course. Time to let go of my anxieties and enjoy the opportunities which have come my way. Time to let someone in, should a worthy candidate present himself.

Time for petite anglaise to take a step back and let me do the living.

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