DON'T YOU KNOW WHO I THINK I AM?

Before I had my son the thing that most worried me about parenthood was the thought of the parties. 

Dinner parties for grown-ups: fab.  I love cooking and entertaining (in the hosting sense, I mean; my stand-up audiences might sue over misappropriation of the word 'entertaining') and I've been poisoning cooking for people since I was 18.  (Most - if not all - of my guests are still alive. And the person who once broke a tooth on my rice [TRUE] was extremely understanding and gracious.  And remained in contact with me for, oh, minutes afterwards). 

Birthday bashes for rampant toddlers, however: hmm.    

One year, when Sam was 4, we invited a bunch of his friends to our house with their parents - the idea being we adults could socialize whilst the children were having fun. We couldn't understand it when assorted mums and dads accosted us in the street asking us if we were mad.  You'll find out they said, mysteriously...

...and so we did.  After the last visitors on party day had bidden their farewells, we surveyed the crayon marks all the way up the expensive embossed white walls of the Victorian stairway, the broken toys, the vomit on the carpet.  As luck would have it I had made some orange boats, floating on a sea of blue jelly; only being new to this kind of catering, I'd put far too much food colouring into said jelly, with parents relating to me a week later how the cobalt blue dye was only just passing through their childrens' bodies. (Use your imagination).  


Hahahahaha.

So the next year, when Sam was 5, we hired the school hall.  Sam wanted a dressing up party.  

[SHUDDERS]

Why are kids supposed to love dressing up?  I always hated it. Whenever I was invited to a dressing up party, my mother never asked me what I wanted to go as, it was a given that I always went as a nurse.  

???

(You only start to think about gender stereotyping when you realize my brother was sent as a Senior Otolaryngoloist specializing in Facial Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery.  But things have happily moved on since then, thanks to EU legislation).

In those days, of course, there weren't X-Boxes and i-Pads and Wiis.  No, children back then were entirely reliant for their amusement on something called crepe paper. Wahoo. Seconds of fun. Yards of it were routinely acquired in bright blue and white to transform me - a sensitive, bookish child, madly in love with music and art and Paul McCartney - into a sodding nurse. Every. Single. Time.  (Just say 'ahhh' for me.  Thank you).

And so, when my son requested fancy dress, I had to think carefully. Not least because parents now have very busy lives, and are naturally considerate about putting extra pressure on their friends to ensure their kids are kitted out appropriately for their social occasions.  Apart, that is, from one mother who organized her son's 'do' requesting 'Medieval Dress'.  WTF? (Although I happened to be directing an actor at the time whose professional dressing up box contained a knitted 'chainmail' balaclava.  Phew.)


Anyway, I and the Then Husband (if you don't know now, frankly I'm not going to bother) thought up the most wide-ranging category we could, erm, think of, and invited everyone to a Cartoon Party.

I made Sam's Fred Flintstone costume, and also the party bags, out of fun sabre-tooth tiger fabric (we were living in Brighton, OK?  It's not uncommon to dress like that around those parts), and I also painted some large posters of favourite cartoon characters with which to decorate the hall.  The Then Husband worked on lots of games, expertly recording sound FX onto his laptop, from which the impressive voice of Darth Vader would boom out from time to time frightening the bloody life out of me.

The day came.  And so did the little brats children.  They were totally uninterested in any of the formal games and activities, affected to be bored with the (pricey) magician we'd hired, and were completely unimpressed by the (real) voice of (ficitious) Darth Vader.  Couldn't you get the real one? was the question of the day.

Why am I telling you all this?  Well, because I wanted to arrange some sort of farewell thing the night before I left Nice. (And it's goodbye from me). I know I go on about the horrible people, but I actually know a lot of very nice folk indeed, many of whom I will stay close to for the rest of my life. Anyway, I thought it would be fun to spend one last night on the beach, and I sent out invitations to drinks at a particular favourite spot of mine on the pebbles.

Most were delighted to have been invited. Some people residing miles away made the effort to brave the horrendous parking nightmare in the city and be there. People brought bottles, and snacks, and food. 


However...I had this email from one particular ex-pat invitee:-

Nice Etoile, It is supposed to rain on Thursday and THIS  IS APRIL, not July. It's going to take more than a bottle to warm us up. I don't fancy sitting on the beach huddled on a concrete slab unless we have a space heater overhead. When you said beach , I thought that's what you meant.  Call me a wuss but let us know when you come up with a plan B.  Best, Godzilla.


In truth, even I - someone who had spent the past couple of years in a place where there are seemingly no rules of engagement with how you talk to or treat others - was completely taken aback by this response to an invitation to my party.  Elsewhere on this blog I've discussed the sense of entitlement that is pervasive in the town, but being set upon merely for having asked someone to a celebration, well, words (almost) fail me.


I could understand the Queen of England turning me down.  I could understand it not being quite grand enough for the wife of a Russian billionaire. But being castigated by another ordinary ex-pat for having under-performed in the party invitation stakes was a new one.


I wrote back saying that it would be inappropriate for Godzilla to turn up after all, should she subsequently condescend to grace us with her presence.  She wrote back telling me how much she admired me for what I'd achieved in a very hard town, to which I replied her opinion was no longer of any value to me, but thanked her for convincing me beyond all doubt that I had made exactly the right decision to leave Nice.


We had a lovely time on the beach. Lots of friends, much laughter, a very nice meal in a restaurant after drinks.  And no, it didn't rain. Even though it was supposed to.


Thus, the sun started to set on Nice Etoile's final night on the Cote D'Azur.  Only for it to rise again the next morning...but tomorrow is another post...

***

HAMMERING THE POINT HOME

There was a certain cyclical quality about my last few weeks in Nice, in that my first days in the place in 2009 were also a bloody nightmare. Seeing as I write plays in my spare time (have to fit in 60 hours of worrying Monday to Saturday, and sometimes do overtime on Sundays and Bank Holidays), I can't really complain about the drama and symmetry of it all.  


Oh, OK. I can.


You know how when you're having trouble making up your mind about an important decision, you get 'signs'; nudges from the Universe trying to elbow you into the path you're meant to be taking (George Clooney or Jeff Bridges??? Still waiting for guidance on that one) well, having decided to leave the Riviera in February - some two and a half months before I stepped onto the plane on 29th April - I imagined I'd saved myself from being shoved in the back by some power higher than a menopausal fairy.  


But no.  


One of the reasons I elected to bid my farewells to the Cote D'Azur concerned the rudeness of people on the street.  Extremely formal in their verbal communications, the Nicoise aren't noted for their politeness when encountering others physically.  As was demonstrated to me even more regularly from March onwards.  It's as if the 340,000 locals had each been personally advised that I was planning my escape, and that they therefore had a limited time left in which to push me under a passing tram.  (Not sure how the points system works, but judging by the number of people attempting to walk into me - and I'm not meaning to boast here - I think I must be worth something impressive).


And then there's the behaviour of some of the ex-pats.  Regular readers will already be acquainted with WikiMan and Pam, but a few other characters subsequently revealed themselves as being not quite as civilized as I had previously thought.  For example, the person - supposedly a friend - who once sent me an email consisting of nothing other than a Nazi symbol.  Life on the Med ought to come with a health warning.


Anyway, events in the final week were far from subtle in demonstrating to me why I was right to leave.  I was endeavouring to pack up my stuff (some of which had to go into storage - in two different places), arrange a place to stay in the UK, tie up various administrative issues, and I also had an article deadline to meet.  


And so I didn't really enjoy the extra stress created by parties of extra-rude teenagers on the sidewalks, the Hysterical Italian Landlady From Hell (lots to relate about her another time), or the (large) eight-legged creature that ran up my arm one morning just after I stepped out of the shower (first one I'd ever seen in that apartment. I screamed it to death.  But thanks, Universe. I'm on the SWEARWORD plane already...)


And then there was Jenny.  


Jenny - whom I had met through a friend - was trying to sell apartments for a living.  Not her own, but other people's.  Having been through a bit of a rollercoaster ride with assorted immobiliers in the saga of the apartment I and the future-ex own in Nice (I was renting something smaller to live in myself), I offered her the chance of trying to sell ours.  


Selling properties in France is not like selling properties in the UK, which is the only other place I've ever had experience of real estate.  In England, people moan about the (commonly negotiable) fee estate agents (mostly young, cocky men called Darren) charge for sitting in an office in cheap pin-striped suits, occasionally mustering up the energy to get up from their desks where they're continually on the phone to people who are probably paid by the government to be on the phone to estate agents (keeps the unemployment numbers down) and slime their way over to the photocopier to make a sheet of cheap paper with a photograph of your house on it to stick in the shop window.  


KERCHING!  That's two and a half per cent of your sale price please!


In France, it's a bit different.  In that the usual percentage you pay an agency to sell your place is FIVE per cent. And sometimes SIX. (Sorry, should have told you to sit down before reading that sentence).


Our apartment currently has a long-term tenant in it.  This complicates matters considerably.  Especially since French law is completely on the side of the tenant - whom you cannot ask to leave during the winter, from October to March, and who is totally within his rights to continue residing in your property even if he doesn't pay the rent for months on end. You, as an owner, must go through sometimes years of costly legal procedure to evict him.  


However, there are different rules for furnished and unfurnished contracts.  I had made it clear to Jenny - on several occasions - that our apartment was being let furnished.  Somehow, though, the words didn't quite compute, and much confusion, misunderstanding and pointless conversation ensued. To cut a long story short, we eventually decided to enter an exclusive contract with another agency, who has managed the rental of the property for the last eight or so years.  And with whom I managed to negotiate a 4% fee.  


We were very polite in informing Jenny of this decision.  We thanked her for her time, didn't castigate her for having met our tenant in person and given him the impression he had the right to stay in the apartment for another three years (oy veh!) and wished her well for the future.  I told her I'd drop by some time and pick up the keys.


Only given my chaotically frantic timetable leading up to my departure, I didn't manage to make it to her agency. I wrote her a polite email apologizing for this. Rather than have the keys sent to London at considerable expense to her company, I asked if she would kindly send them to a friend in Nice who would keep them for me.  


I received this reply by return. (Please note - even though I knew Jenny socially, I had never tried to negotiate her fee down.  Got it? Good). 

I must say that after all the time and understanding I spent on your dossier I find it very impolite of you not collecting the keys yourself and insisting on me sending them by post when they are available at the agency and Bld Victor Hugo is only a step away.

Given this occassion I must say that on many occassions I did not appreciate your behaviour, in particular the way you mislead the agency concerned by the rental, or acknowledging the fact that you were totally aware that our 5% commission was negotiable.

For information Nice Etoile, I was not surprised nor do I regret your decision to withdraw your apartment.  I was totally aware that you were using me and am convinced that this is your normal behavour!

Being 'impolite' for not collecting the keys myself???!!!


I wrote back telling her I was having the week from hell, and asked how it was my fault I didn't know her commission was negotiable.  I also requested an explanation as to how I had 'used' her when I hadn't even tried to knock down her percentage!  She replied curtly that I should tell my friend to call in at the agency for the keys. I replied that my friends had small children, jobs, lives, and that I didn't treat them like staff, and pointed out my consideration in not having asked for the keys to be sent to England, where I would shortly be living. 


Mexican standoff for a day before she sent me a frosty email saying she'd put the keys in an envelope and sent them to the address I had asked her to.  I wrote back saying now f*ck off thank you.


Was there any point to all this??? I was committed to leaving Nice, I'd had my ticket for some time, I didn't need any more persuading that the place was no longer for me!  Complete waste of negative energy, Universe!


Anyway, life moves on, tenants (hopefully) move out, my path towards either George of Jeff will soon become apparent.


Moral: Don't buy anywhere in France. And if you do (I've just told you not to, why aren't you listening to me?) don't stick a tenant in it.  And if you do (you're starting to annoy me now), don't say I didn't warn you. (NOT LISTENING, LA LA LAAAAA.....)

***

STRANGER IN MY OWN LAND

Fish and chips, Indian takeaways, fry-ups for breakfast.  


Radio 4 News, Downton Abbey, Come Dine With Me.  


People smiling at you in the street!!!


Oyster Card.


Hotel (helpful staff).  


Potential flat for rent given to someone else hours before I saw it.


Welcome to London, Nice Etoile.


Excuses for not having updated this blog for a while:  moving house; moving country; Two Weeks From Hell.


Have somewhere else lovely to move into later this week.  Will have to arrange internet (not to mention furniture).  But normal service (as normal as it gets on here) will be resumed as soon as almost-humanly possible.


Oh, by-the-way, did anyone know two people got married last Friday???

***

GSOH REQUIRED

If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, how come lawyers grow rich from clients suing hordes of people over allegations of plagiarism?


I read a very interesting piece yesterday about intellectual copyright in the world of Oscar-winning luvvies:-


http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1379933/The-day-I-sat-Emma-Thompsons-kitchen-accused-stealing-movie.html

(Quite interesting what it says about lawyers, too.)


Anyway, I myself have been 'flattered' of late, it turns out.  


A few months ago, having tired of the weirdos I'd been encountering on established dating sites, I decided it would be far preferable to encounter weirdos on a site of my very own making.  Apart from anything else, a great way of being required to talk to every man who happened along, n'est pas?  And so my singles site was born.  


The membership grew quite quickly and I instigated a regular monthly coffee morning, along with organizing the usual sort of drinks evenings, visits to the local book market, and so on.  I wrote the questions for the members profile page to include which attributes best described them and what attributes they were looking for, leaving space for each person to list their their interests and passions.


Naturally, since I'm moving out of the area, continuing to run such a group would be impossible, so I found someone to take it over.  Would have been a shame to see it go under, it having in excess of 50 members.


Well, guess what?  Another singles site has sprung up!  Here in Nice, where my singles site is based!  


Regular readers to this blog might like to hazard a guess as to whom they've met on these pages who would have the chutzpah to do just such a thing...


...any luck yet?


Well, here's a clue.  Remember Pam?  She of the school of kamikaze driving and secret socializing sites?  The one who threw me out of her group for committing the heinous crime of not having turned up to an event on a wet Wednesday afternoon, thus causing permanent emotional scarring to her members?


Yes.  Pam has started a new singles site.  Here in Nice.  It has the word 'singles' in the title. As does mine. As the second word. Just as in the name of my group.


There are a few differences, however.  Like, er, the secrecy thing.  If you're a non-member you have to join (usual Pam essay required to persuade the esteemed Organizer you're worthy of membership) before you can see if there's anyone there with whom you might like to mingle. (I think Match.com might learn a thing or two from Pam).  


And oh, the profile page...


WHY ARE YOU JOINING THIS GROUP???


WHAT CITY ARE YOU LIVING IN NOW???


HOW MUCH FREE TIME DO YOU HAVE???


WHAT TYPE OF ACTIVITY DO YOU WANT FROM THIS GROUP???


FRIENDS OUT OR HOOK UP???    (?)


STAND UP STRAIGHT, MAN!!!  (I added that one myself).


GRRR...(I added that one, too).


Not sure how, but this group appears to be related to something called Looking for Fun Cote D'Azur 2011. 


Well, if that's somebody's idea of fun, I'd rather sit in front of the TV and watch the Royal Wedding coverage, ta very much.  Whilst having my fingernails pulled out.  Very slowly.


You're not really going to be surprised when I tell you I wrote to Pam, are you?


No, thought not.


I asked her how many singles groups she thinks Nice can support, and whether she'd mind if I started up a group with the same premise of one of her other sites.  


Surprise, surprise, am still awaiting a reply. But then, who am I kidding?  I haven't submitted 2000 words about myself to be worthy of an email acknowledgment.  


Tsk.

***

P.S.  There's an upper and a lower age limit!  As there is with Pam's other sites!  25 to 58, or some other unfathonable random selection. 


Oh, and:-


This group is for singles, and those looking for fun/ relationships who know what they want, and have good reason!  You've got the finances...and the personality to go with it!! 


Screening and selection apply to each candidate.


ZZZzzz...

ALL MOD CONS - No. 1

Let Me Give You Money For Being Nutty

It's hard being homeless.  But at least I'm not green.  (According to Kermit - another frog I haven't kissed - it's not easy being green, either. And just imagine - homeless AND green!  See how much I have to be thankful for?)  


Especially hard to find somewhere to live from 1000 miles away.


Still, thank goodness for the internet, eh?  Look what's out there:-

Beautiful double room with ALL MOD CONS available ASAP.

Would suit someone who is EXTREMELY neat and tidy (who doesn´t like clutter or dust), who has one suitcase, who is patient, good with computers, understands if people are sensitive to chemicals and food allergies and doesn´t mind checking the post.

Flat comes with ALL mod cons, excellent washing machine, nice lounge, excellent storage, gas central heating, double glazing, big refrigerator, cleaner, wifi (internet), free telephone calls to most of Europe and USA, big TV, TV license.

Ideally short term is best, but might become long-term. (Someone who is easy going and flexible with this - and doesn´t mind making sure the flat is kept to a high standard of cleanliness as most people LOVE the flat when they come in because it is kept well-maintained). Thanks!

Now that sounds like just the kind of welcome to a new life I'd been hoping for. I think it would do me good to have to get out of bed at 5.30am every morning and stand up straight with my back to the wardrobe, proffering my fingernails for a cleanliness inspection. And since I don't know many people in London, what better to do in the evenings than polish my boots and iron the edges of the sheets as they form the perfect 90 degree angle over the mattress?

One suitcase?  Must write and ask how many pairs of socks are allowed, and whether they can have stripes...

Think it might be an idea to post an ad looking for accommodation instead.

*

ROOM WANTED

Stuffed dog, no suitcase, 4 paws (clean-ish), would like kennel for himself and his menopausal Jewish fairy (unstuffed for some considerable time).

Very good with computers (loves dribbling over keyboard).

*

Now let the dog see the rabbit...(which shelf in the big refrigerator did you say the rabbit was???)

***

JOGGING OVER EX-PATS

It was the London Marathon on Sunday.  I know this because I was watching the news, where they interviewed assorted pandas and carrots - along with Fred Flintstone - before the race started. (Superman apparently completed the course in 2 hours 42 minutes - what kind of superhero is that, FFS???  No wonder the world's in such a bloody mess).


They then spoke to some kind of an expert, who explained that when you're running in the usual wanker  jogging kit, your blood temperature is a normal-ish temperature for jogging blood, whatever that may be (what am I now? A doctor???)  However, in a chicken suit your blood reaches the upper limits of what is considered safe for freshly heated soup. (Umm, lovely giblets. Can you pass the salt?  Ta.)


As it happens, I had a very urgent appointment on Sunday morning for coffee on the beach, so on prising myself out of my sick bed (had been imbibing fish soup the previous day, having run out of chickens - possibly because they were all taking part in the bloody London Marathon) - I went over to my living room window to see what all the traffic noise was about in the street below. (Sunday mornings are usually quiet, it's the middle of the night when you get noisy traffic round here).


I live on a crossroads.  One of the roads had been closed off.  Not a good time to do this; for one thing it's Mercury Retrograde (oh, don't bother yourselves, I'll fill you in on it another time), for another, half of the street connecting one major thoroughfare to another had been drastically reduced in width because of roadworks, and now, among the hundreds of cars that were gridlocked thanks to the sudden road closure, there were lots of buses trying to negotiate the redirected route, too.


I looked down the street that had been barricaded to see a fearful sight - men and women bobbing up and down in bright spandex.  Not a couple, not a few, but over eight thousand of them, I later discovered.


Well, I knew the London Marathon was arduous, I just hadn't realized that it started in Nice.


Anyway, out I went (not in bright spandex), and ambled down to the Promenade for my rendezvous.  And that's almost as far as I got.  For the road that runs alongside the beach was entirely full of joggers, jogging as if they would have looked completely stupid in neon rainbow clingy jumpsuits had they decided to walk.  


(SHUSH!)


I wanted to cross the road to the beach cafe.  I looked left.  I looked right.  Joggers to the left of me, joggers to the right of me - into the promenade of deathly attire it was impossible to ride.


From the port to a distant point on the way to the airport, there were joggers jiggling in every direction.


Many of us wanted to traverse the Promenade des Anglais.  We live by the sea, it's not entirely unreasonable to want to get to it from time to time. Especially on a Sunday. But the Promenade (it's a PROMENADE, joggers, you're supposed to PROMENADE on it, otherwise it would be known as a JOGGENADE, would it not???) was saturated by the spandex crowd. For miles. 


There are no underground pedestrian tunnels to gain access to the beach. No overhead walkways. The place was designed as if beach goers are grown up enough to cross the road safely under their own devices, negotiating speeding tons of metal coming at them from all directions without any help.  


Negotiating joggers, however, is an altogether different - and evidently more dangerous - matter.


(Why did the chicken cross the road?  He didn't. Too many people jogging in sodding chicken costumes stopping him from getting to the other side).*


*  Or was it that he was just too chicken?


I managed to get to the narrow island in the middle of a pedestrian crossing area, where 45 others were also perched, waiting for a chance to reach the Promised Land of pebbles, friends and coffee.  And there I stood for 15 minutes.


I won't tell you how I managed it in the end, but suffice to say there's a really interesting domino effect when you stick a foot out 45 degrees from your body in an absent-minded, menopausal kind of a way. Which subsequently made the hardest part of traversing that narrow width of tarmac being able to effect the journey without laughing my head off.


Oh, and yes, lovely day in the end - coffee turned into lunch, I got home at 5.30pm.  By which time there wasn't one single chicken in sight.


Clucking marvellous.

***

P.S.  Yes, I know chickens are female, should anyone else want to have a go at educating me.  We used to keep hens in the back garden. Rare breeds, all: Swarfega (my favourite), Nutella, Fruitella, Anaglytpa and Dyspepsia.  


To my knowledge they never entered a race in which they had to dress up as themselves. Nor did they try to cross the road. 


They did come into the house from time to time (egg-delivery used to be a sight more personal in those days) and follow me around on the grass when I teased them with grain, not to mention take soil-baths in the summer, but they were all extraordinarily well-balanced chickens (except for perhaps all of them) and knew I would have taken a very dim view of any monkey business. Which is just as well, since they were chickens.


All now jogged off to that great hen house in the sky, graves close to the house.


RIP, girls.

WEDDING FEVER

Feeling ill. One of those things where your whole body aches, you feel sick and you can't sleep, even though your eyelids are continuously on the point of closing.


It's 17 degrees outside, my (double-glazed) windows are closed, and the heating's still on full throttle. I've just been lying in bed under two duvets (that's not a euphemism for two Italian painters and decorators - why aren't you following me on Twitter, FGS???) and I'm cold. Even my stuffed dog looks sorry for me.


Mind you, perhaps the reason I can't sleep is down to a typical Saturday afternoon in Nice.


The woman upstairs is playing some jolly, bland (and jolly bland) plink plink plink plink pop song very loudly, the pompiers are hurtling around, sirens belting out the usual siren sound, and assorted cars are driving slowly along the streets of my neighbourhood, car horns BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEPING as is customary at the weekends.


Manchester United fans?  Manchester City fans? Exasperated drivers in north London stuck in jams trying to get to see the FA Cup semi-final?


No.


These beeping cars (meant literally, but please feel free to substitute a swearword of your own choosing) constitute a wedding party.


Wills and Kate, take note.


For here in Nice, brides - having enveloped themselves in acres of bright white polyester satin (the fabric, if laid out end to end, would undoubtedly cover the Alpes-Maritimes; twice), and caked their faces in make-up so orange, Judith Chalmers would look like a veritable Goth standing next to them - climb into the back of open top cars to be driven around town for hours so they can wave at Saturday shoppers struggling with their heavy Saturday shopping, yell at startled passers-by, and look the smuggest they're ever going to look. I was on a tram once, with such a wedding car following behind us, wheels astride the tram lines. Sweet, how the vehicle duly waited at all the tram stops, presumably to see if any other orange brides needed a lift. 


Don't you think a tour of London in this way would endear the future king and his wife to their future subjects? Prince Phillip does that carriage driving stuff, I'm sure he wouldn't mind taking the wheel of a resprayed Renault 5, banging his fist on the horn several times a second. It would give the Queen time to nip back to the Palace to make sure the Cheesy Wotsits were laid out strictly according to royal etiquette. And it wouldn't cost much either - Kate's parents would, I'm certain on this occasion, donate the bunting tied to the back of the vehicle, and the silly string, and the life-size cardboard cutouts of corgis stuck on the side of the car, from their own, Party Pieces pockets. (Frilly pockets £5 extra).


Well, let me know if they take my advice.  Sadly, I'll be leaving for the airport at the very time Kate arrives at the Abbey. We already know she's turning up in a car, perhaps the Royal advisors have got wind of how to make the British monarchy just a little more relevant to the British people in this, the 21st Century.


Oh god, where's my bucket...

***

A MENOPAUSAL FAIRY TALE

At first glance you wouldn't think Kate Middleton and Nice Etoile had much in common, would you? One, a rather emaciated young woman, a safe dresser, about to walk regally down the aisle in some understated, costly creation towards her prince; the other, a curvy middle-aged Jewish fairy, tripping through passport control in a tutu, sparkly wand in hand, having failed utterly to find even a boyfriend in her erstwhile adopted home, let alone a balding royal fiance with a good job in helicopters.


Handsome prince? The deal is, as I understand it, that you have to kiss a lot of frogs before he appears, yet I haven't kissed one single Frenchman.  


Don't get me wrong, I've had offers (from an assortment of nationalities, as it goes), and did actually come pretty close to smooching with one tall, dark, handsome Frog in my early days here, but I chose not to go for it in the end.  Therefore, I suppose I can't really complain about a lack of action in the prince department, can I?


Hmm.


So, what's the link between the future Queen of England and myself?


Well, we both start our new lives on the very same day.  


I hope she's happy as Mrs Mountbatten-Windsor. But there's little she can do about it if she isn't.  Whereas I, Ms Etoile, am able to float out of marriages at will, flutter down to the Med and take up residence in a foreign apartment with a leaking dishwasher (there is a limit to a wand's powers, you know), with the potential to pucker up for a future Mr Etoile, should he happen onto the scene.


I can see friends on the spur of the moment, wear jeans day in, day out, and big, cheap jewellery, and not have to stay with the mother-in-law every single Christmas in some drafty old castle.  Nor will my future years be taken up with smiling, shaking interminable hands, listening to mind-bogglingly dull speeches, smiling, tripping over bad-tempered corgis, never revealing any real emotion, smiling, and being nice to the security detail who accompany one absolutely everywhere.  


Oh, and smiling.  


If I want to have sleepless nights worrying about paying the bills, and finally fall asleep just as the world is waking up, I'm perfectly free to do so.  I can spend whole days touting for freelance work, sending off 50 letters at a time, and know I won't have to concern myself about receiving even one acknowledgment in return. I'm also at liberty to pop out to the supermarket for some vital ingredient I forgot to obtain earlier, without which supper will be a complete disaster, only to forget what the vital ingredient is once I get there because I'm menopausal. (Goes without saying the royals can be as menopausal as they like...they have staff.  Including chefs).  


I can choose where I go on holiday myself, were I to have enough money to go on one.  I can drive myself around, getting lost for an hour, be unable to find a parking space once I've finally reached my destination, give up and drive myself home again.  When I can afford to own a car, that is.  And I can toil away for years at getting my name known for my creativity, rather than achieve instant fame for marrying someone famous for being famous.


I don't think much of this will bother Catherine (as we must now call her, according to royal commentators); she didn't have much of an interesting life before her engagement, passing almost a decade since university dabbling in a few days work here and there as an accessories buyer for the retail business of some family friends, and taking the odd photograph of cakes for her parents' party accessories business. (Notice a theme here?  Yes, she's on the verge of becoming an accessory herself to the outdated institution that rules Great Britain! Smile please!)


In exactly two weeks time, Ms Middleton's and my own life will change drastically.  Hers for decades of absolute certainty in every aspect, mine for yet more insecurity and adventure, only in a different place.  


But would I swap?  Not a chance.  I have the freedom to be both happy and unhappy.  Kate Middleton has to be happy come what may. Forever.


And yes, some day my prince will come.  Only, I hope he's not a prince, if you know what I mean.

***

The children of royalty:  Princes and Princesses

The child of a Jewish Menopausal Fairy:  My son, the prince!

APRIL SHOWERS

Mellow evening.  Lying on the sofa listening to soft jazz, reviewing the past 20 months, before I start packing up tomorrow.  But that's what wine is for, right?


What I'm looking forward to in London: a good Indian meal; fish and chips; English newspapers costing less than a month's rent; people you don't know smiling at you and having a chat; waking up to BBC Radio 4 news; seeing my son and my UK friends more frequently; men taller than my stuffed dog. 


What I wish I could take with me from Nice: my friends; the weather (when it's good - been through a couple of harsh winters here); my hairdresser; the stunning scenery; and...erm...


It's hard to say goodbye to things, even if you want to say goodbye to them.  I will miss Nice, although my experiences here have been, at best, mixed.  I'm imagining looking out of my window in north London on a rainy day, dreaming of sitting on a Baie des Anges beach, catching a few rays, listening to the Mediterranean swish onto the pebbles, caressing the ankles of those who don't mind getting their ankles caressed by the swishing Mediterranean; eyes moist, wondering why I gave it all up.


But practicalities must prevail.  Life for me on the Cote D'Azur is not sustainable. It's time to move on. And at least bits of me are tanned...(the Portuguese bits; the Russian bits are still Brilliant White. Snow goggles advisable).


So the next few days will be filled with practicalities - packing up, arranging couriers - and visiting favourite haunts and seeing friends, along with thinking about what being here has meant. Pondering how it's changed me.  


All part of the process.


And gradually Nice Etoile morphs into Not Nice Etoile...

***

PLEASANT VALLEY SATURDAY

For the first time in the eight or so years that I've been coming regularly to the Cote D'Azur - if not living here - I have hayfever.  Well, to be honest, there's not a lot of hay in the centre of Nice, but I'm reacting strongly to the few bales that have been blowing across Place Massena, getting in the way of the trams and tripping up unsuspecting, appallingly-dressed tourists (so not all bad, then).


Didn't bring my prescription medication with me from the UK because I don't suffer from hayfever in Nice.  Unless I do.  


But where's the pleasure in sneezing throughout the night in my bedroom with the wafer-thin walls now that Monkey Woman and her Banana Boyfriend have gone???


For indeed, they departed the other Saturday for pastures (ATISHOO!) quieter.  Well, hopefully for somewhere without any scary pussycats, noisy elevators - or quiet elevators, when they don't work - or diminutive Jewish menopausal fairies...


That morning they arose around 9.00am, at which point they started to vacuum and move the furniture around, so I knew immediately The Day had come. I got myself ready for an appointment and emerged from my apartment to run straight into Banana Man, who was carrying various items of junk (non-judgemental description) to the elevator.  I looked at him.  He looked at me.  I looked away and elected to walk down the stairs.


Once I'd almost reached the floor below I heard the strange mantra of fuckofffuckofffuckofffuckoff.   Took me an instant to realize that was directed at me.  Couldn't let it pass, dear Reader, I have a blog to support, so I shouted up that it had been extremely interesting hearing him and his chunky Monkey girlfriend making love for the past year and a half, and that I was sorry I'd once had a conversation in my bedroom.*


*Irony.  It wasn't actually very interesting hearing them have sex, and I wasn't the slightest bit regretful of having had an (all-too-rare) conversation in my bedroom.  


There was a white van parked in the street waiting to ferry their crap treasured possessions to their new abode.  The one situated next to the airport and the out-of-town shopping centre.  Which they were obviously looking forward to as being the equivalent of residing in the middle of a field. (ATISHOO!)  


But anyway, it matters not.  Because they'll probably still be able to hear me from there.


<SNIFFS>


So bye-bye horrible neighbours.  It's the end of an era.  No more monkeying around.  


Take the last train to St Laurent Du Var-ville
I won't meet you at the station
You can f*ck off by 4.30
'Cos I've had my reservations
Don't be slow, just go go go...
Oh ah ee oh...


[REPEAT AD INFINITUM UNTIL 5AM, AT WHICH POINT YOU PUT ON THE TUMBLE DRYER...]

***

ATISHOO!

THE PARTY OF THE SECOND PART

Since I'm about to leave Nice and relocate to London, I've been joining a few social groups there to try and make some contacts in advance; I may have been born in the city, but I haven't actually lived in the place for almost 20 years, and most of my friends are now scattered around the globe.


This is standard practice, in my experience.  People would often join the groups I was running here in Nice to say they'd be around in a couple of months, just wanting to say hi before they arrived. They'd always get a warm welcome and as much information as they wanted.


So it was with some surprise that I received the following round robin email from the organizer of a discussion group to which I'd subscribed:-

We are a Meetup group not Facebook and as such there is a need for members take part on a regular basis. To avoid a poor attendance turn out I will be removing and banning one inactive member every month. So one member every month who makes no effort to attend Meetups will be removed and banned for at least a year. This person will be chosen randomly. Don't let it be you!

Oh.  OK then.

I immediately penned a quick missive explaining my situation. (I'd already responded to the general request for information about where there were interesting talks taking place, mentioning a favourite place of mine I used to frequent to hear a variety of entertaining and erudite speakers).  I asked if I should resign from the group until such time as I was actually living in London.

It took four days for a reply to be forthcoming.  The organizer told me that leaving the group in order to re-join it was not necessary, and now that she knew what was going on, she would put a special marker alongside my profile.  

However, a few days later, this arrived in my inbox:-

Thank you for your comments Clive. We had a great night with Inherit The Wind! Brilliant film and introduction at the beginning. It was very thought provoking and for it's time very modern! Also extremely funny! It was a comedy dealing with serious issues! 

On the down side I'm surprised there were three No Shows considering the house rules. I emailed my number, wore my badge, was early, saved seats! No text or phone calls from these members and yet members can't see how inconsiderate this is to the Organiser?? Also the one member apart from Clive, who did attend didn't join us afterwards. I'm not sure why. They had my number. We would have been glad to discuss the film with them afterwards as we had a really good discussion in the pub afterwards about the film, life, everything! We laughed a lot too! 

Well it seems there's a need for more house rules.

Members can RSVP Yes and either change it to No or not show up once only. If this is done twice they will be unable to RSVP for any Meetups for three months following. This is now apart from one inactive member being removed and banned for at least a year every month. I am able to check through the site members RSVPs. This is so that members take their RSVPs seriously. 

Consider that myself and Clive were the only people that met up last night. Clive joined this group to meet other people to attend talks with. He could just aswell have contacted UCL himself and gone along alone happily. However he joined this group so he could attend talks with other people. Three of whom didn't turn up last night and whom I've still heard no word from. This is acceptable behaviour in Meetup groups with several hundred members where the Organiser wouldn't notice you missing if you used the most powerful megaphone to shout to them the reason you're not there. In big Meetup groups you are insignificant so if you don't show up most Organisers aren't bothered. They still should be but they aren't.  

Secondly please email your mobile phone number to me before the Meetups you RSVP Yes to, so I can contact you. This is helpful to me as if you don't ring to say you're delayed or not coming or lost I can ring you. This is very much appreciated. 

Thirdly I will not be editing the RSVPs after any Meetups. If you don't change it yourself before the Meetup it will remain as it is. Look forward to meeting you soon!         

Anita

P.S.  

I remember seeing a Meetup where the Organiser also had rules to remove inactive members. She said quality was more important to her than quantity! 

All of a sudden I felt strangely guilty for having done nothing wrong whatsoever.  Remember, in the days before the UK joined the European Union, trying not to look like a criminal walking through the Nothing To Declare channel at airports, even though you had nothing to declare???  

I don't know what's going on, but assorted strangers are telling me off for stuff I haven't done (such as putting my name down for a discussion with Clive and then not turning up, leaving Clive tragically bereft), and stuff I have done (like start a sentence with 'and').  And (tsk) everything in between.

And (enough already!) what is it with the Miss Whiplash routine?  A need for more house rules??? Is being the organizer of a Meetup Group the new dictatorship?  Could this possibly be the way out for Colonel Gaddafi?  Forget Libya, Muammar, there's a very interesting group of people in Clacton looking for a leader, wanting to discuss teapots (well, rhymes with despots, what more do you want, FFS???)

Answers on a postcard, please, by 19.17 tonight. And if your mobile phone number does not appear under your name, I'm afraid I'll have to send in the tanks and pull out your fingernails...  

***

THE PARTY OF THE FIRST PART

You'd think that if you run a socializing group, you'd want people to erm, socialize, wouldn't you?  


Wrong.


(You never get these questions right!  Very weird, especially from a statistical point of view...how'd you keep doing that???)


Anyway, there are many groups here which ex-pats (and indeed, locals) can join, each having their own particular theme: wine-tasting, Sunday lunch, business-orientated networking, and so on.  I've been involved with running two such organizations and belong to a few others too.


I was a member of one particular group for a limited period only.  Why did I leave it?  I didn't.  Dear Reader, I was ejected from it.


Now before you start coming up with your own ideas as to what misdemeanour I committed that was so, so bad it led to my cruel banishment forever (step away from the violin, Ms Etoile...) I will tell you.  I didn't turn up at an event within some secret time period not made clear to new members.


I did try to go to some, honest.  One, a bowling evening, I had to drop out of at the last minute due to the arrival of an unexpected guest; another I'd signed up to I was advised by another member not to attempt to get to on my own as it required a long walk through a dark wooded area, and I couldn't find anyone to go with from where I live; another evening I was interested in I was prohibited from attending because tickets were conditional on having turned up at least one previous function.  So it wasn't for lack of trying.


The group is run by a woman called Pam.  Everyone around here has a story to relate about Pam, and I'm not the first person to have received the impersonal email informing an errant member that they have not reached the standard of behaviour required to retain membership of such an esteemed organization.  Indeed, I have been told over the months that people have been banned for assorted, spurious reasons - such as submitting a cartoon drawing of themselves instead of a real photograph.  Naughty, naughty!

Wouldn't mind, but it was a bit of a job to gain admission in the first place.  


The groups I ran myself had a (strange) policy of welcoming anyone who wanted to join. Unless their family name was Gaddafi (naturally, we directed them to the London School of Economics and Prince Andrew). However, for Pam's group you have to write an essay (really) on why you think you're special enough to qualify for membership. Thankfully, my career in comedy working with the UK's top comedians and actors was just enough to let me slip through the society's portals. After some consideration, of course.


Once membership has been bestowed, you then have access to the website.  


?


Indeed.


It is a 'closed' site.  Non-members are unable to see what events are taking place, or to browse through the list of members to see if they fancy mixing with these people in the first place.


Here's the link to the FBI's website:-


http://www.fbi.gov/


There is far more access to information on there than there is on Pam's site, should you not belong to Pam's group.  Which leads one to wonder what actually goes on there...


...a friend told me that at one meeting she attended, Pam was asking people what events they'd like to see scheduled.  Well, this being the Med, the usual things came up - drinks at a rooftop bar, a picnic on the beach, a visit to some art galleries.  Pam made notes and then swore everyone present to secrecy.  Nobody was to tell anyone from any other social group that they were going to be arranging drinks at a rooftop bar, a picnic on the beach, or a visit to some art galleries.


<RAISES EYES HEAVENWARDS>


Anyway, you know me, I can't stand pomposity, so I wrote to Pam on receipt of this curt email, which spelled out in rather blunt terms that I was unwanted and should never darken her homepage again. I asked if the spirit of what these groups were about was not being eroded by the pointless secrecy and the cold, unfriendly attitude. Naturally, no reply was forthcoming.


A few months passed.  I got on with my life, mixing with friends who didn't require me to submit a request in writing, in triplicate on parchment, to ask them if they fancied meeting up for a coffee. And then one evening I went to my friend, Sofia's, place in Nice for pre-party drinks. The party, to celebrate Christmas, was in Monaco, Sofia was one of the people attending with a car, who'd offered to give others a ride.  


Drinks were duly had, convivial chat was in progress, and then another friend brought over a woman, uttering the words Pam, this is Nice Etoile.  Oh dear. Pam looked me up and down. Huh. So you're Nice Etoile are you?  And she walked away, nose in the air.


Hmm.  


The time came to depart for Monaco.  I followed Sofia to her car.  As did several other people.  Far too many to accommodate in her Fiat. But luckily, there was another driver! That's right. Pam.


Five people wanted to travel with Sofia, two had committed to travelling in Pam's vehicle. For some inexplicable reason, Sofia looked at me and asked if I would mind going with Pam. Yes, actually, I would.  No, I said. I wouldn't mind.


Stomach sinking, I walked over to Pam's car.  One person was already in the front passenger seat, another in the back.  On opening the other back door I discovered a large silver of cooked salmon on the seat (it was one of those parties where everyone brings a dish). I looked at it. Pam looked at me. I looked at Pam. She motioned with her hand for me to get into the car. I pointed to the large silver tray of cooked salmon. She continued to look at me and do nothing.  


Sofia's trunk was open.  I said there appears to be lots of space in Sofia's car, shall I carry the tray over?  


The salmon stays with me, came the reply. (As if I'd looked her straight in the eye and said I've come for my fish...)


So I stood there thinking it wouldn't be so bad not to go to Monaco, I could really do with an early night.


Eventually, though, through huffs and puffs that would have worried the builders of even the most sturdy houses in the area, Pam removed the tray, placing it lovingly into her trunk.


We set off for Monaco.


Pam is not Italian.  She is not French.  She is not, to my knowledge a Formula 1 racing driver.  However, you could easily have mistaken her for any one of these - if not all three - on the journey eastwards. For she ensured there was always a blind bend before overtaking the car - or cars - in front. At 150 kms an hour. She's trying to kill me, I thought. Murdered for not having turned up at a bowling night...


Suffice to say (you might have already worked this out for yourselves - even you, who never get the right answer on your own) that I did survive the journey.


We pulled up outside the villa and parked.  We all got out of the car. Pam opened the trunk and delved into a large bag. She handed out red Santa hats to the others she had brought in her vehicle.  She looked at me for a moment.  She grudgingly asked me if I wanted a hat, too.  I didn't.  Yes please, I said.  She thrust one into my hand.


Once inside the house I approached Sofia and asked if I could travel back to Nice with her later.  Of course, she said.  


Happy Christmas.


Strange but true.  Though not quite as strange as what occurs in my next piece.  Stay tuned for more...

***

AND THEY'RE GOING ROUND THE BEND...

Spring and summer on the Cote D'Azur! 

A time of champagne, celebrity, Hollywood film stars and handsome young racing drivers... 

...topless starlets on the Croisette, topped-up tanks roaring around Monaco. What could make a person feel more positive about life?

I'll tell you what - a few Health and Safety rules.

Let's start with the Grand Prix. I had the misfortune to have go to Monaco a few times a week in May last year. 

Why misfortune, I hear you ask? It's one of the most exotic locations in the world, isn't it? A place where you can't walk around without tripping over some of the richest and most powerful people on the planet. Which is exactly the problem...

...tripping up.

Whilst you're snuggled on your comfy stone-coloured, kid-leather Galeries Lafayettes sofa, watching your state-of-the-art flatscreen TV, G&T in hand, mesmerized by flash, high-performance sardine cans powering through the narrow principality streets on over-sized slick-tyre Bridgestones (you never know when you might need a handy fact to let slip casually to a squared-jawed hunk over a glass of over-priced fizz), just think how we disappointingly-normal people must negotiate our way around tons of scaffolding, cameras, hundred-ton broadcast trucks and assorted members of British Royalty - who have probably been flown there courtesy of some paedophile's private jet - to carry on with our disappointingly-normal daily lives.

Pedestrians? Who needs them? Monaco doesn't. Certainly not in May. 

Sidewalks are closed off, broadcast cables lie patiently in wait to snare you, steel scaffolding bars swing perilously over your head, attached precariously to the prongy bit of a crane (don't really want to chat up a crane-driver, so who needs the vocabulary?) by way of an old elastic band, pedestrian crossings are declared null and void. 

If you want to cross the road, don't even bother to look both ways, just close your eyes and step out into the busy stream of traffic hoping for the best. (Don't say I never give you any worthwhile advice). If you are walking in Monaco that must mean you have legs, which indicates you are plainly not rich enough to have evolved excessively-expensive luxury cars instead of those humanoid limb things more common amongst poor people. Which means you don't matter.

One day last year I was so exasperated trying to get to the other side of the port from the station that I para-glided, para-scended (and subsequently para-medic-ed) my normal Grand Prix route across town clutching a box of Milk Tray to my breast.  However, this made no difference whatsoever (can I sue Cadbury's?) and I have to admit, I did feel a bit of a Hazlenut Praline.

(It did occur to me to hitch a ride with Jenson Button – isn't he related to Cadbury's Buttons??? - but then I realized he drives somewhat slower than a Nicois bus driver, and thought I'd get there quicker if I just crawled).

Do I sound bitter? (Or perhaps bitter-sweet? Notice a theme developing in this piece?) Perhaps I should have gone to Cannes? What could possibly be injurious to a person's health there?

Well, all I can say is just go into a cafe at Film Festival time and order a coffee. Then look at the bill.

[NOTE: THIS COLUMN DOES NOT TAKE ANY RESPONSIBILITY FOR HEART PROBLEMS, ASTHMA ATTACKS OR CONSEQUENCES OF RAGE. CANNES COFFEE TO BE ORDERED ENTIRELY AT READER'S OWN RISK].

None of this would be possible in the UK, of course. There are lots of poor people there, and the government needs them kept alive so that they can be taxed to high heaven in order for MPs to buy their ducks floating hotels and pay their secret lover's rent. Thus Health and Safety has grown into an enormous industry, worth millions.

Moreover, the Health and Safety Executive's Mission Statement is: 'To prevent death, injury and ill health in Britain's workplaces.' (Not quite 'To inifinity and beyond' but it's a start.) Their website covers such lofty topics from Can a person be left alone at their place of work? to Vibration – Are the new regulations in force yet? Fat chance of reading anything like that around these parts.

And so, since it would appear that a glamourous lifestyle on the Med is not without its dangers, in the interest of my readers I hereby pledge to carry out my very own Risk Assessment to help them negotiate this year's spring celebrity frenzy as healthily as possible: I duly volunteer to go to Cannes to find out whether George Clooney's vibration is strong enough for me to be left alone with him. (Don't say I'm not always thinking of others.) 

And since I'd like to get there safely and in one piece, if you happen to see Jenson Button could you please ask him if I could have a lift?

***

No. of plastic surgeons consulted by the average girlfriend of a Formula 1 racing driver:  57

No. of complaints from average girlfriends of Formula 1 racing drivers of waking up with 2 left breasts instead of one left and one right:  896

No. of miles per hour at which Jenson Button travels when he's in a bit of a hurry:  4