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  

BANANADRAMA - MONKEY WOMAN UPDATE NO. 76,563

Simone came to dinner last night. (She was in the diary for January 5th, only I was standing in that Monoprix queue for a little longer than I'd expected).


She had some news for me.


She'd run into Monkey Woman's boyfriend, who regaled her with a list of complaints sooo bad about life in this apartment block that he and his chunky monkey companion had no choice but to move out.


Their main issue, it would appear, is that I'm so noisy they're going to the police to make a complaint about me!


Ahem.


Well, it is the case that one night last week I'd gone to bed very early, so that when the phone went at 10.30 I answered it in my bedroom.  And, erm, had a conversation.  


Cue LOUD BANGING ON THE BEDROOM WALL. (Which I obviously dealt with as placidly as you would expect from someone whose veins contain nothing other than a cocktail of Portuguese and Russian blood).  


The next day I left a note on their door telling them that if they continued to watch loud DVDs in their bedroom through the night, run baths at 3.00am whilst the clothes dryer was tumbling away until 5.00am, and SHOUT at each other from different ends of the apartment to be heard above the noise of the running bath and the kitchen machinery - not to mention continue with their harassment of me - I would complain to the syndic, the management agency who run the block.


Must admit, hadn't thought of the police, though. Inspired.

But the biggest news of all, dear Reader, is that Monkey Woman is expecting a little baby chimp!  (Delighted all that monkey business I've had to endure listening to has had some point to it).  

Anyway, on and on Banana Man went at Simone...the elevator makes a noise when people use it, when the inner elevator doors are left open it means people can't use it and then it doesn't make a noise (well, make up your bloody mind, which do you prefer, FGS?), do you know what happened the other day his girlfriend had to walk up the stairs and she's pregnant (erm, about three or four months gone, I would say, but obviously pregnant women lose the use of their legs pretty early on in the South of France), Simone's cat (one of the sweetest pussycats in the whole world) occasionally comes out of her apartment and meows at them (and leaves the elevator doors open?), he needs to live somewhere better because he works in a restaurant (oh, why didn't he let us know that before?)...ZZZzzz...


Precious???  


Surely not.


Anyway, they're off to to St Laurent du Var.  Which is very close to the airport, and the location for Cap 3000, the large out-of-town shopping mall (3000 denoting the number of parking spaces).  So, a lot quieter there, then.


And I'm certain their baby won't cry through the night.  Much.  


(Hee hee hee).

***