SNACK ATTACK - PART II

There used a be a Japanese restaurant in Paris to which people flocked - and, indeed, queued up outside (not a French hobby, believe me) - every night of the week.  Great food?  Cheap prices?  Nope, they went because the serving staff were famously rude to the customers.

I went there once, when I was living in the city in my twenties, thinking the time spent outside waiting to get in was a good investment towards what was going to be a memorably miserable evening.  However, I was to be sorely disappointed:  the waiters were perfectly polite, and couldn't do enough for us.

(It now occurs to me to have asked for my money back).

When I was a Music student (piano and comedy violin, since you ask), I worked for two evenings a week in a Wimpy Bar.  (It's a burger establishment, m'lud, a precursor to the American brands which flew over the Atlantic and virtually wiped out the indigenous terrible food). Friday and Saturday nights, there you'd find me in the Woodgrange Road in Forest Gate, East London, clocking on at 5.00pm, clocking off at any time around 1.00am (having first scrubbed the concrete floors out the back).  I earned 50p an hour and could eat a meal every time I worked there; as much as I wanted (though not the desserts:  the rum baba was particularly forbidden. Which was a bit rum. If not baba.) And so, starting out on my penurious journey through life (Arts and Media won't always feed ya) I learned quickly: double Wimpy (think Big Mac), double chips, double anything else I could pile on the plate (those were the only two nights a week I ate anything.  But hey, I was suffering for my art.) It was quite a good way to feed myself, in fact.

We could keep the tips, but had to share them between all the waiting staff. I was usually on with another girl, a very lazy specimen, who had worked out that she still got just as much money as I did even if she sat on her fat **** all night, so that's what she did.  But she missed out on a lot of fun...

...for that Wimpy Bar was where I first developed my bantering skills. The locals were cheeky, and I gave back as good as I got.  They loved me, and once a table of young people all contributed to a HUGE gratuity - it was pounds, not just the odd 10p most people were in the habit of leaving.  (Which obviously delighted Fatso).  At least they enjoyed the verbal sparring, if not the food.

Anyway, I relate this here because I feel it's an extremely important thing to give good service to customers, whether or not you are being paid a pittance for your time (and which employment is delaying the third act of your next opera), whether you find your job demeaning, or whether the boss is shagging your girlfriend.  (Better than you do).  It's not the fault of the customer, and it's in everyone's interest for these customers to come back.  One would think.

This is a post of three halves, Brian.  Next installment of appallingly bad service (though not to do with food) is on its way...

***

No. of halves so far:  2

No. of calories Thursdays and Fridays:  48,759

No. of calories Saturdays through Wednesdays:  - 63

No. of Supersized waitresses:  1 (and it wasn't me)

SNACK ATTACK - PART I

When I lived in Brighton with my then husband (this was the last then husband, I have a pending then husband currently - oh, not to mention a then then husband...oh do sit up and concentrate for goodness sake! There's a test at the end.) Anyway, as I was saying, when we (whatever his name was, gets a bit confusing even for me) and our small child (who is still our child, only no longer small) were enjoying the seaside resort as our hometown, we went out to lunch one day on the beach.  

There are, of course, numerous eateries along the promenade, and we treated ourselves to fish and chips at one place, large enough to accommodate diners both inside, and outside at tables situated on the stones.  (Nice also has stones for a beach.  Go figure.)  We queued up for our food, and then, because the sun was shining (Nice also has the odd spell of sun, so come to think of it, I feel vindicated), decided to sit at an al fresco bench table.  Our son, Sam, was about 4 or 5 years old at the time.

We'd asked the person heaping crispy battered fish and steaming fat chips onto our plates for some ketchup, but he charmingly grunted they'd run out of sachets, so we tried to interest Sam in tartare sauce instead.  Well, I am a comedian.

However, once having seated ourselves outside, we noticed large plastic bottles of ketchup on the tables for diners under cover, so I walked into the room, picked one off a table (nobody was eating inside the restaurant), and carried the bottle out to my family.

Instantly a Very Offensive Woman Indeed ran over to our party and snatched away said bottle of ketchup, shouting angrily that THOSE BOTTLES OF KETCHUP WERE FOR CUSTOMERS SITTING INSIDE, and not for the likes of us, sitting OUTSIDE.  I think it's fair to say that our gobs were fairly smacked at this point.  We tried to explain that we had paid full price for the food and not the takeaway price, that it was resting on the establishment's crockery, and that our small son was plainly very upset that there had been no ketchup available.  To no avail.  And so we got up from the table, delivered the untouched fare to the serving counter and asked for - and received - our money back. Needless to say, we never ate there again.  (Technically an impossibility, I know, since we hadn't managed to eat there once.)

The other evening here in Nice I strolled along to one of the many restaurants along the Cours Saleya, home to the famous flower market, to listen to a couple of friends perform jazz for a few hours.    This is a regular gig and I'm there at least once a week, enjoying the music and drinking cheap, but over-priced (if you know what I mean) wine.  In fact, I have recommended the place to many others, publicizing it on a couple of social sites I'm involved with, and have met with friends for 'aperos' there on other nights when there is no live music provided.

The people I was with earlier this week split into various groups, there being not enough space to accommodate us all at a single table. We ordered drinks.  The other tables were swiftly served the usual complimentary snacks, but when our drinks came there were none to be seen.  Nor were we offered any the rest of the evening, even though every other table at the place was enjoying them.  As time progressed the people I was with were getting a little restive - not to mention peckish - so I asked our waitress, when we were ordering our 3rd round of drinks in the 2 hours we had been sitting there, if we could have something to nibble.  She was very curt with us and walked away, nose in the air.

After a while we reminded her, at which point the boss came over with a plate, setting it onto the table with a BANG! spitting an insult at me at the same time, whilst baring his teeth.  I said 'Monsieur!' and he immediately picked up the plate and took it away.  

I got up from the table (we were outside) and followed him into the bar, where I tried to engage him in conversation, but he would have none of it, even after several attempts on my part.  Nor would he let me talk to any member of his staff, whom he ordered to walk away from me whenever I was endeavouring to engage them in conversation.

So I said goodbye to the people I was with, threw some money down onto the table for my (nibble-free) drinks and stormed off.  Later on the waitress told my friends the drinks were on the house, and the next day one of the people at my table returned my money to me.

What does it mean when folk who choose to spend their hard-earned wages in a particular establishment (and there isn't exactly a shortage of places to drink in Nice) are regarded by les patrons as being completely beneath contempt?  

To be investigated further in Part II...

***

SUNDAY NIGHT, MONDAY MORNING

There's something about Sunday nights and Monday mornings.  When I was living with the Future Ex-Husband he invariably had a sleepless night before having to endure the heaviest day's schedule of the entire week.  And since I've been living in Nice, the 'Monday morning effect' has regularly given me reason to wish I could have stayed in bed until Tuesday afternoon at the very earliest.


I had quite a full day yesterday, for a Sunday.  I'd hosted an ex-pat coffee meeting in the morning (meaning I had to set my alarm and be down in the centre of town long before the last of the tourists were chomping on their chewy croissants, dressed, as these cheap travellers tend to be, in seasonally-inappropriate head-to-toe white linen). Normally the conversation flows easily at ex-pat events, but yesterday it was hard work, and I actually had to mingle more professionally than is often required, saving a succession of guests from the wit and wisdom* of one particular happy camper.  


Then a few of us sat at a local restaurant for a long jovial lunch, before ambling over to a small gallery, which was offering a display of giant colour photographs of A-List-famous jazz musicians, along with live music from a duo which included David Reinhardt, grandson of Django.  


A couple of hours socializing here (standing up all the while), and I was thoroughly done-in.  As were we all in my party; apart from my gorgeous American friend, Santa, that is, who instantly had men queuing around the block for a chance to chat her up.  (I told her she was being greedy, but did she share her conquests?  Did she hell.)


I somehow got myself home on my weary legs, cooked a simple supper, went to bed early and dropped easily off to sleep.


Yep, you've guessed it.  It was Movie Night in the bedroom next door! Don't worry about booking a seat, folks, you can enjoy it all from the comfort of your own bed!  All programmes start at 11.15pm or later!


I thought about banging on the wall, but - once again, like last time - I hesitated.  After five minutes, Monkey Woman (who was possibly still revising the colloquial English phrases I taught her last week) went into her bedroom and smacked her ignorant boyfriend around the head with a large haddock. (Well, a girl can dream.)  Off went the DVD.   But it had done its job well and already woken me up, so 1-0 to him.


Peace once again restored, though, I lay in bed inviting sleep to return.


Cue violent thunderstorm. Oh, and make it last an hour and a half. Thanks!


I got up and watched it from my living room window, which gives a floor-to-ceiling panoramic view of the area of the city in which I reside. Stunning, spectacular, SWEARWORD annoying.


Finally, finally, it blew over and I crawled back to bed.  It was 2.15am by now.  Down I snuggled under my (two) fluffy duvets.  


Visit her, gentle Sleep!
With wings of healing.  
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth, 
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!

Cue Bin men.

For almost every night, the refuse collectors of Nice disperse across the city with their grindingly-loud waste-disposal vehicles and noisy conversation (they obviously have to shout at each other to be heard above the grindingly-loud waste-disposal vehicles) and this, now, was their time...

And so, I look like a panda this morning.  (It's my eyes, dear Reader, I'm really not clutching a pawful of bamboo to my bosom.)  

What do I have to do today?  I have to research material for three Health and Beauty articles. 

What will these articles say?  Yes, you've guessed it: forget drinking lots of water, eating organic produce and tiring yourself out naturally with daily gentle exercise, just down a bottle of plonk every night, swallow a fistful of sleeping pills and invest in industrial grade earplugs.  Invoice on its way, Melissa.

***

*  WARNING:  HEAVY IRONY

COMING SOON!

FISHFINGER NIGHT!

An evening in which various brands of battonets are enjoyed 
(or otherwise)

by a panel of selected experts (i.e. freelancers who can't always afford to eat real food).

Watch this space for their pronouncements on coating and crunch,

fish content and fingeryness.

(Chips optional).

***

RAMSAY STREET IT AIN'T

Monkey Woman came to my door last night.  And she wasn't looking for bananas.


Well, technically, it was this morning.  I was giving a small dinner party (that means not many guests, not a tiny plate with a single baked bean on it) for three middle-aged women.  Monkey Woman took exception to this.


How riotous can four Women of a Certain Age be?  


Mind you, a few years ago a group of us took a friend to Barcelona for the weekend as a surprise 40th birthday celebration.  (It was a surprise because she thought she was only 27).  There were 12 women in total, and we encountered all sorts of problems trying to book a hotel that would accommodate the entire party.  It wasn't a lack of available rooms, it was a prejudice against a giggle (rather than a gaggle) of 40-something females.  


Eventually we found an establishment that agreed to take the risk, and oh! What a total liability we were!  We visited the tourist sites, we spent money in the local shops, we ate out in nice restaurants.  We watched beautiful young people dance the tango on Las Ramblas, we took the tourist bus, we said por favor and gracias a few hundred times a day. Shame on us.


Anyway, back to Monkey Woman.  I think she was trying to get over to me that it's acceptable behaviour around these parts to watch VERY VERY LOUD sci-fi movies at one in the morning, with attendant SCREECHING FX and EARDRUM-BURSTING DIALOGUE, but it's a complete non-non to chat to your (three) guests - unaccompanied by any background music or one teensy little plasma blaster - in your own living room, which doesn't even share any walls at all with her cage. Hmm. Interesting concept.  Must ponder on that one.


Someone I forgot to mention the other day, in my post about the neighbours, is the woman in the apartment immediately above mine. She appears to be President of the Nice Women's Shouting and Stamping Society, in which role she is required, once a month, to host an evening during which assorted females all shout over each other for two hours before suddenly breaking into song (it's a bit like the Sound of Music, you're thinking), whilst accompanying themselves with out-of-time clapping and heavy clog stamping (it IS the Sound of Music!) rounded off with loud cheers in self-appreciation of their fine achievements.  This gaggle (and it IS a gaggle) generally dissipates around two in the morning (So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, piss off...) at which point the host's 8 year-old daughter runs around the un-carpeted floors in her mother's stilettos, whilst her mother is filling and running the dishwasher.  On the longest cycle.  


Meanwhile, in the street it's carnival time.  Our apartment block is situated on a crossroads.  Many of the tourist guides to the French Riviera have somehow forgotten to include information about the nightly competition to see whose in-car stereo can wake up the most people whilst sitting at traffic lights at 4.00am.   


Surprisingly, I don't see Monkey Woman taking issue either with Maria and the Von Trapps upstairs, or with these (entirely male) motoring enthusiasts.


Anyway, last night I endeavoured to interest her in the notion that turning the volume up to OVERLOAD when watching Demolition Man meets Robocop in your bedroom at one in the morning, when the person next door is sleeping, is perhaps not the best way to endear yourself to les voisins.  I then thanked her for her interest and wished her a safe passage back to her own front door.  Only being a writer, I managed to condense all of these sentiments into just two succinct words.


See what I told you?  A sense of entitlement.  Don't-you-know-who-I-am mentality.  And an appalling taste in movies.


(And yes, MW, your bum does look big in that tasteless dressing gown.)

***

F*CKING SHOPPING

I guess some of you have heard of Shopping and F*cking, the play by Mark Ravenhill.  (Get to the back of the class anyone who thought it was one of Brylcreme Br*an's.  Now.  And stay there for the duration of this column.  And stop doing that with your eraser. Thank you.)


Anyway, if I can continue, it's about consumerism, and uses violence and sex to illustrate graphically the moral paucity to which modern society has been reduced.


There are a few retailers in Nice who would do well to employ a little violence and sex from time to time.  It might help them elevate the quality of their service to customers.


Here's why.


Shopping in Nice (as you well know, I'm not qualified to talk about the other thing, thanks for bringing it up) is unlike shopping anywhere else on the planet.  You have to steel yourself mentally before you set out, harness your emotions and gird your loins.  (That is, if you can lay your hands on your loin-girders.  No idea where to get them here, don't think Galeries Lafayette stock them.)  For shop assistants - I'm sure they'd all prefer to be known as Executive Directors of Luxurious Style Advice (even for loin-girders) - are not only haughty, not only rude, but many have been trained to regard any potential customer as a downright thief.


Take my local supermarket, Intermarche.  (Please, take it.)  It's 30 seconds up the road and it's very cheap (well, according to the definition of what 'very cheap' means around these parts).  Hence, I occasionally frequent it.  (If you can frequent something occasionally). At other times, when I'm not sometimes going somewhere a lot, I avoid it.  Why?  Because life is already short and I don't like losing the will to live.


Should you happen to have gone into the store having previously shopped elsewhere, you have to hand over your bag to the woman on reception, who gives you a peg with a number on it.  This either gives you your bag  back when you leave, or a nice plate of ham, egg and chips. (I've eaten in Sainsbury's restaurants, I haven't always been exotic).


Should you go into the store with an empty bag with which to carry home your purchases, the check-out assistant (always a woman) will stick her whole head into it to see if you've not tucked away 10 kilos of potatoes, which you are endeavouring to sneak out of the place without paying for.


This is, to be frank, completely ridiculous.  For one thing, I can take in a giant satchel, large enough for me to sleep in if I get stranded miles away from home because of the SWEARWORD STRIKES, with enough pockets to accommodate under separate cover each individual potato from that 10 kilos.  Nobody looks into my satchel.


For another thing, there are no fewer than 24 cameras positioned around the shop floor, pointed down every aisle, around every corner of the place, with live streaming displayed on V  E  R  Y   W  I  D  E television screens to amuse you when you're queuing for HOURS AND HOURS because the check-out woman is too busy sticking her whole head down people's trousers.  (That'll be next, you'll see).


For another another thing, there are ENORMOUS BURLY SECURITY GUARDS watching your every move.  One guy, who must be 6'5" (that's actually his height, but it could also refer to the width of his shoulders) is particularly scary.  Once, having discovered what I wanted wasn't upstairs, but downstairs in the household section, I tried to exit through the way in, by the vegetables.  He was on me like a shot, despite me being dressed for summer  (no jacket), a teensy little handbag which couldn't even contain a single potato chip, let alone 10 kilos of potatoes, and no shopping bag.


'WHERE ARE YOU GOING?!'   His head was very close to mine, despite mine being a full 4' closer to the ground than his was naturally.


I told him what I was looking for.


'IT'S DOWNSTAIRS!' he helpfully advised me.  'DON'T EVER DO THAT AGAIN!'


I didn't.  But nor do I go in there much any more.


(Another excellent reason for avoiding the place is the strange spectacle at public holidays.  And I do mean strange. I went in last Christmas to hear the most awful jingly Christmas music belting out from the speakers. I know all jingly Christmas music is awful, really I do, but this was of an awfulness only the French could inflict onto their thieves customers.   The 'music' was periodically interrupted by what sounded like a very drunk, over-the-hill comedian with a big nose (honestly, I could hear the big nose), burbling unintelligibly into a microphone with a deep bass voice, before manically laughing WITH THE MIC VOLUME TURNED UP TO DEAFENING.

'camionpoissonneriebroderieangliasexceptionnelAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAperpetuellementgrosseurantipeeliculaireboucleeAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA....'

Whilst I've always worked in the 'out there' arts and media, dear Reader, I'm actually, deep down, a woman of sensitive erm, sensibilites, and I had a fairly sheltered upbringing.  This horrible assault on the ears - I used to play the violin, I know what a horrible assault on the ears is - was already putting me off my shopping.  But I wasn't prepared for what was to come...

...for at the back of the store, adjacent to the fresh fish fridge (I hope I'm never asked to read this column out loud) stood the man (big nose, why didn't you believe me the first time?) with a microphone in his hand, wearing one of those suits which made him look like he was riding an ostrich.

Why?

Why, why why why why?????)

At heart, I'm a Monoprix girl.  Monoprix is a shop not unlike the Co-Op in the UK, but it's a bit of a more upmarket brand, especially when it comes to food.  Monoprix is owned by Galeries Lafayette, the very upmarket department store similar to House of Fraser in the UK.

But grocery shopping there has its own pitfalls.

In the store on Jean Medecin, the city's main shopping thoroughfare, you have to walk past the fish counter to gain access to the rest of the food hall. It's where the Mona Lisa fish are layed out for inspection.  What's a Mona Lisa fish?  It's one whose eyes follow you around whilst you're wandering up and down the aisles. You feel their gaze on the back of your neck - and when you turn around accusingly, sometimes you just manage to catch their eyeballs guiltily darting away.  

Favourite place to shop?  My local market in the streets where I live.  Set up every morning apart from Mondays, the produce is straight from the farms, vibrantly coloured, mis-shapen (so you know it's real) and cheap.  You just grab a plastic bowl, fill it up with whatever you fancy and hand it to the stall holder, who separates the items, weighs them and stashes them in a bag for you.  I've never been ripped off in change, and nobody is ever dressed as if they're riding an ostrich.  

***

Boyfriends to go sh*pping with (what did you think I was going to say???): 0

Ostrich Stock Cubes:  679

Money off coupons:  0  (It's a blog, for God's sake!)

MANIFESTATION INFESTATION Part II

There were long queues stretching out from the check-in desks, where the eventual prize was to stand in front of an appropriately frosty check-in woman.  (I won't name the airline involved, but it's commonly known by the first two letters of the alphabet in reverse order).  Isolde went first, and was admitted onto the flight in a matter of seconds. Then came me.


To say I was 'greeted' by the bitch woman would be a misuse of the English language too serious even for a comedy writer, so let's just say one of her eyebrows acknowledged me.  (Grudgingly).  


'Why do you zink you're on zees flight?' she asked me.


I explained what had happened, and that the Concierge had booked me a seat.


'You are not on zees leest, you cannot fly.'


I asked her to check again,  Perhaps the Concierge had mistakenly given his own name?  She was getting bored now.  Obviously due to her sophisticated intellect, which balanced out her warm charm.  


But nope, there was definitely no sign of me on any of the documentation.


'Well, when's the next flight?' I asked her.


'In a week', she replied, appearing to cheer up.


'What do I do until then?'


'Not my problem,' she said.


Ah, the World's Favourite Airline, whose previous slogan had been Fly the Flag (but not the little Jewish comedian, OK?)


We'll take more care of you - if your name's not NiceEtoile.


Isolde and I regrouped to discuss what was to be done.  We agreed that she should go through passport control, after which time she would have the remainder of the time before the flight took off to see what she could do.  I had no money, no prospect of staying in a hotel, not even any toes left.  I could be stranded for a week.  (Hey, great idea for a film!)  


So we hugged and off she went.


I am now about to relate something so far-fetched, you will not believe that it is possible for anyone to have lived through it.  Other than a fictional spy played by a woman with such unfeasibly enormous lips, they need a seat to themselves on the plane.  (I thought I did the jokes, Angelina).  


Half an hour later, Isolde was once again standing opposite me.  


With more stealth than a Kazakhstan national determined to take (obviously polite) intellectual issue with Sacha Baron Cohen's totally accidental depiction of his race, Isolde had somehow found her way back through passport control and security - crawling through air-conditioning units, abseiling down the side of buildings, bribing Russian spies with nothing more than the promise of a ticket to one of my gigs (OK, I'll come clean - it was promising them they wouldn't have to turn up under any circumstances) - and got back to me in the check-in hall.


She told me she'd called the hotel, where they'd got our Concierge out of bed (he was off-duty, this wasn't part of his job description for the woman in 459), he had spoken to BA (oops!  Nearly!) the unidentified airline involved, and once again pulled out the big one.  (This is a column of two halves, dear Reader).   


I was on the flight home.


But what flight home?


The plane due to take us back to the welcoming arms of Heathrow (artistic licence, give me a SWEARWORD break) had not yet left London because they kept having to de-ice the wings.  (Not the greatest comfort to someone who hates flying.  Except when she's desperate to fly, that is).


But eventually, some hours later (ZZZZzzzzzzzz), the aircraft arrived in Paris and we trooped on board. 


Naturally, Isolde and I were not sitting next to each other, but it was only a short flight, what did it matter?  (For an accurate measurement of matterment, please ask the gentleman I was sitting next to, whose arm I kept grabbing in alarm every time the pilot blinked and thus displaced one zillionth of the air around his eyeball in the cockpit which nobody on board could detect apart from myself. Aaaaarrrggghhhhhh!!!!!)  


Anyway, we finally reached London.  Yay.


So then it was only a matter of passport and security, collecting our luggage and taking the short ride on the bus back to the centre of town and our warm beds, right?


Wrong.


There was no bus at the bus stop.  We waited.  There was still no bus at the bus stop.  After yet another hour (but what's one tiny hour in the day from eternity?) one appeared.


The first people got on.  The queue didn't move forward.  We stood there.  Gradually, however, we inched our way forward, until finally, finally, we stepped onto the vehicle and faced the driver.  


'Two tickets to central London, please.'   We held out a five pound note, newly acquired from a cash machine.


'WHAT'S THAT?!' barked the driver.  (Any relatives working for any airline in Paris, perchance???)  'NO USE GIVING ME A BLEEDIN' NOTE, THEY AIN'T GIVEN ME NO BLEEDIN' CHANGE!'


It was now four o'clock in the morning.  We were beyond frozen.  Quite possibly we'd died in the night and our brains were only functioning thanks to the natural cryogenic effects of the terrible winter.  All we wanted was to be driven back to London on a bus from one of the biggest, most important international airports on the planet, where many hundreds of international travellers from all over the SWEARWORD world had just arrived, having somehow - oh, how forgetful were they! - omitted to fill their pockets before they left Melbourne, Moscow, Frog Suck, Wyoming, with small change in Sterling for the SWEARWORD airport bus!


Welcome to London.  Excellent choice for the 2012 Olympics.


I think it was sometime two years later when the bus eventually departed. Of course, the heating on it had packed up.  Of course, the journey took six times longer than it was meant to.  Of course, we thought never mind, this will be a funny story to relate in a blog one day.


And so, strikes?  Can't get enough of 'em.  Next Tuesday's 'manifestation' is putting into doubt my ability to be able to turn up to the first class of my new job teaching presentation- giving.  First rule of presentation-giving?  Present yourself in front of the SWEARWORD audience.


Long live President Sarkozy.  He deserves to have to look at Scary Carla for as many long years as possible; serves him SWEARWORD right for what he's doing to the country.  And why should we be the only ones to suffer?

***

Dogs: 1 (Give up the plastic surgery, Carla)

Bitches: 1 (guest appearance on behalf of the World's Greatest Airline)


Cool Cats: 1 (courtesy of Wagner)

MANIFESTATION INFESTATION Part I

Nice - like the rest of France - was on strike on Tuesday, as it will be again next Tuesday.  There were no buses, no trains, no trams, no planes.  

What there was, though, were plenty of people on the streets - cheering, jeering and marching, whilst waving banners and holding aloft flaming red torches which left behind a residue of flaming red smoke.   Oh, and the litter; copious amounts of drinks containers, cigarette ends and unread leaflets.  The street was awash not with the briny blue of the Mediterranean 400 feet away, but with its own sea of printed matter and shiny bright plastic.  The French call these demonstrations 'manifestations'.

On the morning of the strike I wandered downtown to a meeting of assorted freelancers in a cafe near the Old Town.  At least, I think they were freelancers, it was hard to hear what anyone was saying.  For all I know I might have aimed myself at the wrong place and attended a gathering of The Nice Gaudy Cravat and Bristly Moustache Fanciers.  

This was initially due to there being piped music playing almost in the background, but then there was the loud, constant HISSSSSING of the coffee machine (kindly refrain from hisssssing), not to mention the eventual addition of some strange stapling device that was apparently crucial to the running of the place - KER CLUNK, KER CLUNK, KER CLUNK - and finally, just when you were thinking look on the bright side: at least the Dagenham Girl Pipers weren't there (thank god the air traffic controllers were on strike), the slow-marching protesters entered the vicinity, megaphones ramped up to, erm, mega:-

Hon y soit qui mal y pense, les 2CVs [JEERS], Sarkozy est merde [CHEERS], les pains au chocolats [DRIBBLES], la scary Carla Bruni [SCREAMS].

Well, at least I emerged none the wiser about where to obtain wax for my moustache.  (Don't even go there).

The last strike that had a particularly direct influence on me was New Year 1980-something.  Obviously, I was just a child.  [WHISTLES].  I'd gone to Paris on the ferry (penniless, comme d'habitude) to mourn the end of a duff love affair, and found a cheap, but cosy, hotel near the Gare du Nord.  And it was a good job it was cosy, since the temperature was down to -15 degrees every day.  But the room was toasty, I frequented the art galleries, bought plastic bottles of wine for the equivalent of 30p a litre (nothing changes), and dripped tears into the gallons of chocolat chaud I put away.


After a few days enjoying my misery on my own, my friend, Isolde, flew over to join me.  At the time she worked for a Very Posh Indeed chain of hotels, and managed to wheedle us a free stay in one of the most expensive establishments in Paris.  So I checked out of my room-with-a-womb - which, oddly, had a wash basin in the middle of one wall, surrounded by what can only be described as a small, indoor shed built from unfinished chipboard - and wandered over to the palatial quarters of the Residence Sacha Distel (not its real name) to find an ENORMOUS bedroom - with a bathroom the length of a runway at Charles de Gaulle, containing a couple of basins, sans shed! - a bowl of exotic fruit - including strawberries, for god's sake (it was January 2nd) - and original artwork on the walls.


(Just occurred to me - perhaps my geography had led me astray, and I checked into the Louvre?)


Anyway, we did the touristy things, we froze, we ate strawberries, we froze, we went up the Eiffel Tower - where, in one of the lifts, a small child stepped onto my frozen toes, which immediately felt like they'd become detached from my feet - I swear I heard the crack (small child ultimately found a quicker way down) - we froze, we drank a lot of hot chocolate.  On one occasion it was so, so cold (Snowdrops Keep Falling On My Head) that we could only get back to the Residence Sacha Distel by scuttling along the street for no more than ten seconds before succumbing to the charms of another warm bar for (yet) another mug of steaming brown beverage.


Excuse me, officer, can you tell me the way to the Residence Sacha Distel?


Certainly, Madam, it's ten hot chocolates due north from here.


The day came to travel back home, Isolde with her return flight, me on the boat.  Only, what boat would that be?  The ports were closed thanks to a strike, and nothing was coming in to France or leaving it by water.  


Catastrophe.


Isolde had a grand idea.  She called down to the Concierge and explained the situation.  Since she was a VIP guest, the Concierge would take care of the problem. (He could have had her skipping out onto the Moon's surface hand in hand with Neil Armstrong had she requested to do so).  Half an hour later he called the room - even though every plane was full thanks to the New Year break being over, I was miraculously on the same flight as my friend back to the UK!


We packed up, we checked out...and then realised we had about 10 centimes left between us.  Hmm.  We'd better change some more money for unforeseen circumstances, just to be on the safe side.  So we trotted over to the hotel's bureau de change and joined the queue.


The woman in front of us was an American wearing a very thick fur coat, and she changed up 10,000 dollars.


Our turn.


'Bonjour, mademoiselles', the teller greeted us, with a fixed, plastic grin. 'Ow much would you like to change?'


'5 pounds, please', we said in a jolly, British, 'what's wrong with that? Chop, chop,' kind of a way.


He shot us a glance as if to say 'didn't I see you on the last Jeremy Beadle series?'  But his 5 star professionalism kicked in at the last minute.


'If I can 'ave your room key, please'...


'Oh, we've just handed it into reception. But we were staying in Room 325.


'I'm afraid I cannot 'elp you then,' he told us.  'It is against the rules of the 'otel to change money for people who are not guests'.


'But we were guests until five minutes ago!' we protested.  To no avail.


So Isolde walked calmly over to the Concierge's desk (she was getting the hang of this VIP lark by now) and explained what had happened.  The Concierge went very red in the face and puffed out his chest.


'BUT YOU ARE GUESTS OF THE 'OTEL!' he exclaimed, loudly and indignantly, and proceeded to march his perfect pin-stripe trousers over to the Bureau de Change, us following behind in a line of dinky steps, like baby ducks following their mother.  Once at the Bureau he let out a stream of what must have been not awfully polite invective, judging from the colour the teller's face turned.  


We got our 5 pounds worth of Francs, dear Reader.


But the night was only just beginning.  For the Concierge promptly summoned over the bellboy to carry our bags to the taxi he had ordered for us. 


'Thank you, but we won't be needing a taxi,' said Isolde, airily. 'We've got plenty of time, we'll walk to the Gare du Nord'.


The Concierge looked perplexed.


'You don't want a taxi?!', he spluttered.  (Nobody in the history of the Residence Sacha Distel had ever left its portals without summoning a taxi. Other than those whose chauffeurs had picked them up).  'But look outside, Mademoiselles!'


We looked outside.  There was 8 feet of snow on the ground.  


[NOTE:  This blog is entirely devoid of clever lighting, airbrushing, botox, laser skin resurfacing or chemical peels.  (Oops, sorry!  Wrong article!) Anyway, no statistics were harmed in the writing of this post - there really was 8 feet of snow on the ground.]


Isolde and I looked at each other.  Like John Wayne, we realised there was no way out of there barring a shoot-out if we didn't get in the cab.  So we got in the cab.


The bellboy picked up Isolde's suitcase.  Isolde, mindful of the size of tip she would be expected to give the bellboy, grabbed the suitcase back.  The bellboy, startled but insistent, reached again for the luggage, and an unseemly tussle ensued in the middle of the large, marbled, be-chandeliered foyer.  Isolde won.  (My close friends are carefully chosen for their many various attributes, and what a blessing brute force can be at times).  We staggered to the taxi with cases stuffed full of thick sweaters, thick socks, and thick white velvet bathrobes with some sort of insignia embroidered on them.  (No, we didn't.  That was a joke.  Really, really.  Honest.


No, really!  Why won't you believe me???)


There had been an implicit understanding in agreeing to take the taxi that, once in it, we would instruct the driver to stop around the corner from the hotel and let us out with our luggage to enjoy the night air.  However the preceding half an hour had tired us somewhat, and, dear Reader, we both thought Bugger It; thus we let him take us to the Gare du Nord to catch our train to the airport.


On arrival at the Gare du Nord we handed over our treasured, hard-won 5 pounds worth of francs, and waved goodbye to any chance of a beverage - of any variety - before stepping onto the plane.


Never mind,  we'd be back home soon.


The train arrived on the platform.  We got on it.  The train sat there.  We sat on the train.  After half an hour we were told to get of it.  Another train came onto another platform.  We got on that.  It sat there.  We sat on  it.  Eventually, it pulled out of the Gare du Nord.


It was now a pitch black night, apart from the 8 feet of crispy snow that covered everything.  After twenty minutes or so we drew up at a platform serving a station en plein air.  We were told to get off the train.  We got off the train.  The train pulled away into the night without anyone on it, bar the driver.  We stood on the platform, in the dark, -20 degrees, no train, no information, no nothing.  Well, there was something, there was snow.  And 100 sets of chattering teeth.


After a while a train came into view.  It stopped at our platform.  We were not allowed to get on it, the doors did not open.  The people inside - warm people, people whose toes were in their shoes attached to their feet and not melting in a plastic bag in the their hand luggage, looked pittingly down at us wretched SNCF refugees.  They almost didn't smile as their transport dragged them off into the distance.  Almost.


Probably about three weeks later a train came along that we were allowed to get on.  And so we arrived at the Charles de Gaulle airport.


Don't know what it's like now, haven't been there for a few decades (wonder why), but back then we had to wait for a shuttle bus to take us to the famous circular terminal that I thought nobody ever found their way out of.  Devoting a life to comedy, however, naturally it falls to me not to be able to find my way into the SWEARWORD thing.  


A bus appeared.  100 frostbitten travellers, too cold by now even to summon the energy to shiver, almost cheered.  The bus pulled up 100 feet away and the driver got out his sandwiches and newspaper, and - with the engine running so that he could keep himself nice and warm - he took his evening break.  For half an hour.

***

No. of Part 1s:  1

No. of Part 2s:  o (Don't be so bloody impatient)

Forfar: 5  Fivefar: 4

TUESDAY 12TH OCTOBER

Alarm set for 7.45am.


Awoke 7.11am.


Monkey Woman 1  -  Nice Etoile 0

***

One of those days:  1

THE SECRET OF COMEDY...

The editor of a UK magazine I write for lives in Nice, funnily enough.  I hadn't met her before I wrote my first piece, and she invited me to meet her at the airport after publication in order for us to set eyes upon each other, and so she could hand over the dosh to me in a plain, brown envelope, Jeffrey Archer style.  If I could be there at 5.30, she told me, there'd be time for a coffee before she met her friend, who was flying in for the weekend.

So I duly set my alarm for 3.30am, sprang out of bed and into the shower, drank a cup of strong black coffee and set off into the night - ears filled with TSF Jazz, the radio station without whose playlist I am unable to place one foot in front of the other. I knew it was too early for even the airport buses to be running, but I was able to catch the first tram of the day at 4.30, taking me (almost) down to the Promenade.

I quite enjoyed my power walk along the seafront; nobody around, the sea still managing to sparkle in the blackness.  I got into a good rhythm, but on nearing the airport - which is, literally, on the coast - I realized I would need another 15 minutes for the journey, and so I texted Melissa to say I was on my way.

A text was duly returned:  IT'S NOT NOW, IT'S 5.30 THIS AFTERNOON.

[INSERT SWEAR WORD HERE]

So used am I to the 24 hour clock being employed almost exclusively here, it hadn't occurred to me that people don't fly in for the weekend at 5.30 in the morning.  

Anyway, around I turned, and walked to the nearest bus stop. I was unwilling to trek for another three quarters of an hour back to the centre of town, and had to be awake enough to teach Paolo in Cannes at 8.00am. The timetable on the bus stand told me the first bus would come in 20 minutes, so I settled down and waited for the ride with Dizzy Gillespie.

Eventually, after 15 minutes, I saw a motorized road sweeper, so beloved of the French, approach in the distance.  Sweep, sweep, sweep, it crawled along at a pace slower than Brylcremed Brian's brain synapses connecting up.  When it was almost at the bus stop I caught sight of my bus haring into view.  Only the driver, too, saw the road sweeper about to suck up imaginary dust from the bus stop kerbside, and he overtook it at a speed approaching 50 miles an hour.  I jumped up and down, waving my arms and shouting.  The driver looked at me sadly, shrugged, and continued on his merry way.

[INSERT ANOTHER SWEARWORD HERE]

And so, there I was, waiting another 20 minutes for another [SWEARWORD] bus.  The next one actually stopped, but when the ticket I had used on the tram wasn't accepted by the bus' ticket machine (here you can use a ticket more than once within 74 minutes) the driver insisted I buy another.  I explained about the first bus, but he was a man of little natural compassion.  So I paid for another fare, at the same time telling him his mate owed me a [SWEARWORD] euro.

Naturally, once at Place Massena, I just missed a connecting tram to the station so, with another 25 minutes before the arrival of the following one, I walked.  Of course, the trains to Cannes were then delayed, and rather than arrive in Cannes far too early, with time for a (now much-needed) coffee on the Croissete, I got to Paolo's 5 minutes after I should have done.

Later that day, when I once again set off for the airport to meet Melissa, there was a traffic jam of biblical proportions (I really wouldn't start splitting hairs with me at this point), and I arrived at the airport 30 minutes later than the appointed hour.  Fortunately, Melissa was also caught up in the nightmare, which I discovered after I'd sent her a text saying it takes some sort of talent to be 12 hours early and half an hour late at the same time.

The things I do for cellulite.

(Oh, by-the-way, the secret of comedy isn't, in fact, timing, but being menopausal).

***

Bus tickets:  76

Deep love for motorized road sweepers and French bus drivers:  You must be [SWEARWORD] joking.

Fishfingers: 0 (It was a really bad day).

Oh, and Men:  0  (I'm men - 0 - pausal)

R.I.P. TIDE

Somebody drowned on the beach the other day.  I didn't see it happen, thankfully, but it was very shocking, nevertheless.  Not the first such tragedy this year, nor, even worse, will it be the last.  The next day all I could discover from one line in Nice Matin was that he was a man in his thirties. 


You wouldn't think the Mediterranean was a dangerous sea, but it is. Last night my friend, a former competitive swimmer, told me about a near miss she'd had once when it became impossible for her to get her footing and climb out of the water.  She was only saved by a friend grabbing her arm and pulling her out with all his might.


The day the latest fatality occurred was an ordinary one for me.  I had written all morning, eaten some lunch, and gone for a walk to get some air.  When you live on the coast, the beach is a natural gravitational point.  I don't often sit on the beach, but above it, on the white benches along the Promenade, watching the people, the ferries enter and leave the port, and the planes taking off and landing on the man-made promentary around the bay that stretches out into the azur blue water. I took one of my favourite routes: down Jean Medecin to Place Massena, along to the Promenade des Anglais and across it to the beach, then turned left.  It is, in my opinion, one of the prettiest parts of the coastline, adjacent to the hill of the Chateau, with its interesting architecture, gorgeous planting and magnificent waterfall.


After a couple of minutes of idle strolling I noticed a group of people standing on the Promenade staring down at a particular section of the beach.  I took a look.  There were five or six policemen and women talking to each other around something which had plastic sheeting covering the length of it.  It took a few seconds for it to register: underneath the tarpaulin was a body.


I was a bit giddy.  This was the closest I'd come physically to a death. However, after the initial shock had worn off, there was something even more horrible to contemplate.  For just yards away from the covered corpse sat dozens of people, sunbathing, chatting, frolicking in the sea, as if nothing untoward or tragic had just taken place.  Carrying on as normal, their bikinied-bodies were angled to face the sun - which happened to point them in the direction of the man whose life had just been snatched so suddenly from him.


I felt sick and unsteady on my feet.  I had to get away from that dreadful scene; dreadful for the terror that young man must have felt before succumbing to the waves; dreadful for the realization he would have been alive at the time I left my apartment; dreadful for the way in which his awful plight had not reached any one of those people determined to have their day on the beach, no matter what.


I've thought about it a lot since. I'm still deeply shocked that the death of a young man had seemingly not upset 100 or so sunseekers; it was one of the last warm days of the summer, and nothing was going to ruin their enjoyment of it.


Nothing is cheap on the Riviera.  Apart from, it would appear, life.

***

MEET THE NEIGHBOURS

I went to bed two hours ago, having been falling asleep on my feet.   I wrote all day before meeting a girlfriend for a drink at a rooftop bar, walked home and crashed. Actually managed to fall asleep, too, despite the neighbours - whose bedroom backs onto mine - watching a VERY LOUD sci-fi film in bed.  Then ten minutes later WHOA!!!  The Martians had apparently crash-landed onto their bedside table, and awake I was once again.


And so I'm here in my blog.  (Not before STOMPING about and SHOUTING random CURSE words through the bedroom wall. MERDE!!!)


These neighbours are young, a thin boy and a plump girl.  He has few social graces and not much brain, she has charm and intelligence.  I hope he appreciates her.


Well, he seems to in bed.  Quite often.  The apartment block was built in the 20s, and the walls are thin.  I won't say much about their love-making, other than she is known in my apartment as Monkey Woman, whose vocal enjoyment of the coital process stretches to such ultrasonic frequency that it would unsettle dogs.


Upstairs is a sour-faced old man, whom I always seem to run in to no matter what time of day or night I'm in the communal areas.  Two floors beneath me is a gorgeous guy, who's just bought his apartment, and who completely renovated it (it took weeks) before moving in with his young daughter.  He's very charming, and I'm hoping to run into him a bit more...


There is a bar across the road from my apartment.  It's not like an English bar, people don't sit in it, and as far as I can see they don't drink either, they merely stand outside and SHOUT at each other.  In the summer one customer brought his young kid with him - every night - whom he routinely ignored every time the child yelled - yelled - PAPA!!! at the top of it's stratospherically high-octave voice.  Which was three times every two seconds.


Along the street there is a Spar, outside which there sits a bearded, long-haired, middle-aged man, all day, every day, a receptacle for donations set in front of him.   He reads constantly; magazines and books, all looking like erudite material.  At night he can be found in the bar twenty feet along the way, spending the days' takings on beer and cigars.


There are a lot of beggars in Nice.  One woman used to sit on Jean Medecin, the main shopping street, with a giant white rabbit.  Only the rabbit doesn't make an appearance any longer.  Another - mad-looking - man sits outside Monoprix during the day, and on the main tourist street in the evenings.  He's had a change of dog recently.  The government gives more money to the homeless if they have animals, so you do the maths...


The are many eccentric (polite term) inhabitants of this city.  A most memorable example is one particular woman, very thin, impeccably-dressed in immaculate mini-skirts, tight, off-the-shoulder leopard-print tops, extraordinarily high platform shoes, who sports long blonde hair, jet-black false eyelashes and Very Bright Red Lipstick Indeed.  Sounds OK?  Yes, until you see that she's actually 112 years old.


A friend and I watched her down on the Promenade one day, strutting along with tiny steps as best she could in those scary heels, before launching herself without a moment's hesitation into the road.  No looking left and right and left again for oncoming traffic, she just walked.  Cars blew their horns, screeched to a halt and waited for her reaction.  There was none.  She just continued to look straight ahead and took her own time - roughly thirty seconds - to teeter across both lanes and continue on her way to la la land.


Welcome to Nice. The place where the people are thick-skinned, the walls are thin, and nobody sleeps.

***

Hours sleep:   0.6


Swear words:  497


Impure thoughts about the gorgeous man two floors below:  Mind your own business

LOST IN TRANSLATION

I suppose when people think of the French Riviera they imagine a carefree bohemian existence of artists and beach living. Strangely, life here can be remarkably formal.


I help to run a local social group, which sometimes involves emailing en bloc the membership list to let everyone know what's happening.   A few weeks ago I sent out a link, but then realized it wasn't the right one, so I hastily composed another email, which I entitled I'M SH*T AT *T.


You know you're in trouble when you receive back a missive which begins:  Kindly refrain from sending me vulgar headlines.


I don't think I've once seen the words 'kindly' and 'refrain' next to each other during the past several decades, and even historically without being followed by an instruction about not putting feet on seats, or lighting a cigarette in a public place.  


The author of this email ought to be called Brian.  I've never met him, but I'm betting should-be Brian has a moustache and a secret fondness for cravats.  I, of course, wrote back disputing his assertion that any vulgarity had occurred; for one thing, there was an asterisk in place of the vowel in the word he took exception to (I'm guessing it wasn't IT), and for another, it was a satirical joke, which had plainly gone straight over his empty, obviously-Brylcremed head.


There then followed several email exchanges between us, which were eventually curtailed once I had achieved the verbal equivalent of strangling Brian with his gaudy cravat and shaving off his bristly (and bristling) moustache.  


Serves him right.  


Even on the Riviera, the French are very formal in their communications.  Except when they're not.


Yesterday, I had a two-hour inteview for the position of teaching presentation skills to business people.  Now I could be wrong here, but, casting my mind back, I'm pretty certain that I've never before had a meeting about a tutoring job in which we exchanged lines from Pink Panther movies.


'Have you got a rheum?'


'A rheum???'


HAHAHAHAHA.


'I thought you said your derg didn't bite?'


'That, monsieur, is not my derg'.


HAHAHAHAHA.


On the other hand, I had another interview the week before last, in which the young headmaster was sporting an open-necked shirt and a gold chain atop his hairy chest.  He appeared to be extremely impressed with my CV, and told me I would definitely be called back to a second interview, which should have taken place last week.  When I hadn't heard anything by Thursday I sent off a (polite) email asking if this was still likely to happen, only to receive no response whatsoever.  (I still haven't).  (A cravat in his case would have been marginally more attractive than an 80s Tom Jones look, even to my sensitive tastes).


There are, from copious personal experience, countless ingenious ways of rejecting someone.  Years ago, when I was heavily involved in broadcasting, I sent around my CV to various media companies, along with a voice tape.  My friend was trying to interest assorted publishers in her novel at the same time, and we decided to have a competition to see who got the rudest comments back.  It was all going pretty well, we seemed to be neck and neck; she would receive some particularly pithy comment about the shortcomings of her prose, I would get a cassette back with 'No thanks' scribbled on a compliment slip, or perhaps just someone's initials - or even just a compliment skip with nothing written on it.  This could have gone on for years, had it not been for the time I opened the envelope to find just my cassette residing within it.  No compliment slip or other communication in sight.  I thus had no idea who had hated my work so much, they deemed it not even worth the inclusion of a third of a piece of A4 to let me know who they were.


(But hey, I won!  I had less talent than she did!)


What (also) seems to have escaped Brian's intellectual rectitude is that for every email he sent me, I replied mimicking his style.  I can't work out whether it's more fun taking the piss out of Brians when they just don't see it, than if they do.  But you know, I quite miss responding to this Brian's haughty wrist-slapping.


Of course, if people don't get back to you at all, it's another story.


Oh, by-the-way, I got the job teaching presentation skills.  Doesn't come with a derg or a rheum, however.  

***

Boyfriends:   Still 0       

Moustaches:    -1  (Yay!)   

Italian decorators addressing my chest:   0  (Yay!)   

A LOAD OF BALLS

I have an Italian student in Cannes.  That is to say, he has Italian nationality, I don't teach him Italian.  (That would be a short lesson - how long does it take to say 'Cornetto'?)  Anyway, we'll call this Italian Paolo.  (Phew).  


He's 17 years old and, like the rest of his age group, wakes up at 4.00 in the afternoon.  Which is a pity, seeing as I teach him at 8.00 in the morning.   (Once, at 7.30.  Che palle).  As you can imagine, this is not something that entirely fills him with glee, but he has an Italian mother, and so has no choice in the matter.


The first time I saw him I had to check out his vocabulary and reasoning, and so I described various scenarios to test his comprehension.  


'Imagine you are coming out of Cannes station to see a man running away very fast with a woman's handbag under his arm; what would you think?' I asked him.


Deadpan, and quick as a flash, he replied:  'Good for him'.


Paolo has left school, and is a bit of a golfing genius.  When he turns 18 he's going to become a golf pro.  Having picked up his lack of enthusiasm for academic tuition, I thought I'd liven the lessons up a little, so in the early days I would reward him for (eventually) doing stuff I was nagging him about.  


'You're too old for gold stars,' I told him, 'so I'll give you golden golf balls.'


And I drew a golden golf ball on a sheet of paper.  Half an hour later I awarded him another one.  He tried not to smile, but the corners of his mouth were - almost imperceptibly - turning up, and I could tell he was pleased.  


Paolo is very interested in politics, which is great for me, given my studies and (hitherto) writing career.  (Haven't quite sussed out the politics of microdermabrasion yet).   Even more to his credit is the squeamish horror with which he viewed that bastion of British political life, George Galloway, crawling over to Rula Lenska in the Big Brother house, purring and intoning 'I am a cat', when I showed him the clip on You Tube.  (It was rather satisfying to be able to counter Silvio Berlesconi with a home-grown political liability).  


On one occasion we were discussing conspiracy theories, and the topic came up of the first moon landings.  Paolo was certain Neil Armstrong stepped out of the landing vehicle onto a moon surface procured by the film set dresser.  


Later on that lesson I recapped on what we had covered that day.  For pronunciation purposes I asked him to tell me what Neil Armstrong's profession was, 'astronaut' being a bit of a tricky one for non-native English speakers.


'He's an actor', Paolo stated firmly.


Last week I asked him if he still had the sheet with the golden golf balls. 

'Oh yes, I'm keeping it safe.  I'm going to sell them,' he replied.

'On eBay?' I asked.

'Yes,' he said.  

'What are you going to ask for them?'

'Fifty euros', he told me.  'There's always some eediot willing to pay 50 euros for rubbish on eBay.'

***

PROLOGUE

The decorator came to my apartment for two days work last week.  He was Italian.  We'll call him Giuseppe.  (Wish we wouldn't, it's not very easy to type).  Stocky man, glasses, not that tall.  In fact, his shorts were longer than he was.  He had to paint the hallway, and he closed all the doors leading off it before climbing up onto his ladder.  (This was for professional purposes; I'm not certain he uses the ladder for recreation, but it might be an idea).  After an hour of work on my book (available in all good stores Christmas 2037!) I came out of the living room to find him cheerfully plastering bits of the ceiling with a fag hanging out of his mouth.  


'I hope it doesn't put you out that I smoke', he said, in French with a heavy Italian accent (not sure there's a font for that).


'Biffo', I managed to mumble,  (fluent Franglais that Italians can understand), surprised he hadn't asked me for permission to light up.


Thinking about it whilst making a coffee, I started to boil along with the kettle.  I marched to the hallway (I presume it was the hallway, there was a bit of a white fog now).


'Actually, I'm terribly sorry, but I have asthma.  Would you mind going outside to smoke, please?'


He was immediately acquiescent, and very apologetic. But it's typical of life here; you get away with whatever you can.


The next day he started to leer, ever so slightly.  And lean close when he was talking to me.  And smile a lot, and tell me what a pretty name I have (I've always liked NiceEtoile myself).  Not to mention gaze at my breasts when he was addressing me.  Halfway through the morning he sang me a chirpy song in Italian, bobbing up and down and clicking his fingers to keep time. When he'd completed the whole job in the early afternoon he came close and put his head next to mine, lowered his voice and semi-growled something I couldn't make out about an 'apero'.  I thought he was asking me out for a drink later (he's married, I've met his wife) and so I just laughed, but he was intent on getting his message across and kept repeating the phrase.  In the end, I understood:  he was asking me for a glass of wine, as a treat, for having finished the job.  He looked deep into my eyes as I finally cottoned on.


Hell, he's weighing up whether or not to make a pass at me, I thought. But, for the sake of International Relations (I have a Politics Degree, I take these things seriously), I opened a new bottle of rose I had chilling in the 'fridge.  (Two for the price of one in Monoprix; drinking it, you understand why.  I think Giuseppe would have worked slightly faster had he used it to remove the ancient paint the previous day). 


He downed the wine almost in one.  


'How is it?' I asked.


'It's good, very good', he lied, fixing me intently with his dark eyes once again.  


I affected a business-like manner and managed to get rid of him - eventually - without being propositioned.  But it was a pretty close thing.


This sums up my life here.  People make their own rules, there's a deep sense of entitlement, and married men blatantly and unashamedly come onto women.   (WHY DON'T THE SINGLE ONES, FOR GOD'S SAKE???!!!  COME ONTO ME, ALREADY!!!  I'M OVER HERE!!!)


A drama writer by inclination, I've been persuaded to write a book about my first year in Nice.  What you'll (eventually) read will shock you:  I'll laugh, I'll cry, I'll make my living from writing Health & Beauty articles (aaaarrggghhhhh!!!!) and - when I can get the work - from teaching.  But what might shake you to the core is the attitude of the people who are drawn to this most heart-stoppingly beautiful place: the ex-pats.  


They've come from all over the world, they have aspirations for an easy life and many of them tread on each other in order to get it.  I've worked for two schools, one university, a local magazine and a private individual.  In every instance there has been questionable moral behaviour, and not one person involved in the sorry tale has been French.


Forget comfy middle-class diaries about Rupert and Camilla trying to make local builders understand, in the depths of the French countryside, that it is not mandatory to install a bidet in Every Single Room in the forty-five bedroomed 200 year-old chateau they're doing up with Camilla's inheritance from Lady Constance, cast aside those memories of John Thaw mooching morosely around the soft-focussed hills of Provence, this is real life: tough, urban, completely at odds with what you might expect when you imagine the glamour and beauty of the Cote d'Azur.


There is a well-known book by Chris Stewart, one-time drummer with Genesis before they became famous (I know that feeling), called Driving Over Lemons.  Chris and his wife bought a remote farm in rural Andalucia (that's funny, I could have sworn they'd gone to Spain), and his writing relates their adventures in doing up the property and having to steer over the indigenous yellow citrus fruit.


People don't drive over lemons here, though.  They drive over ex-pats.


This is the story of my endeavours to write a book about my experiences, whilst trying to earn enough to keep my freezer stocked with Picard's fish fingers.  (Good quality fish, nice crunchy coating, not many additives. Quite a reasonable price.)  It's a colourful picture of places, of people, of other things beginning with 'P'.  The story of everyday life on the Riviera.  Read it whilst I weep.


WARNING:  THIS BLOG CONTAINS ABSOLUTELY NO SEX WHATSOEVER.  DAMMIT.




UPDATE


GOOD NEWS:- THIS BLOG NOW DOES CONTAIN SEX!   


BAD NEWS:- THE AUTHOR IS SADLY NOT A PARTICIPANT IN IT...



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